Little White Lies (29 page)

‘Go ahead. I’ll be here.’ That slow, wry smile again. She hurried away before she made a fool of herself.

Her mother looked up as she approached.

‘Did you enjoy the concert, darling?’ she asked, smiling. ‘I saw you chatting to lots of people. Isn’t that Julian Lovell?’

‘You know him?’ Rebecca was surprised.

‘Of course. He’s just taken over the Paris branch. He’s very nice.’ There was something in the way she said it that made Rebecca look sharply at her.

‘How old is he?’ she asked bluntly.

‘Oh, not
that
old. Forty, perhaps,’ Embeth said vaguely, looking off into the distance.

‘Mama. Come on.’

‘Well, maybe a
little
older than forty.’

‘Fifty, you mean.’

‘Perhaps. But he’s very nice.’

‘How do you know him? How come you’ve never mentioned him before?’

‘Darling, we know so many people.’ Embeth sounded genuinely surprised. ‘Actually, I’d forgotten all about the Lovells. Anyhow, you’re keeping him waiting. Are you going for a drink somewhere?’

‘Well, I was just checking . . . is Dad ready to go home?’

‘Yes, but don’t let that stop you. You go on and have fun. I’m sure Julian will make sure you get home safely. And we can always send the driver for you.’

‘Mama,’ Rebecca whispered sternly. ‘He just asked if I wanted another champagne. We’re not going anywhere.’

‘Well, suggest it, for goodness’ sake! It’s the twenty-first century, Rebecca, not the nineteenth. Show a bit of initiative!’ And with that, Embeth turned back to the group, leaving Rebecca with her mouth hanging half-open.

‘So . . . another champagne? Or how about a spot of dinner?’ Julian robbed her of the initiative she’d been busy trying to muster.

‘Er, sure. Dinner, I mean. I haven’t eaten since . . . well, since lunchtime.’

‘Then let’s go to dinner. I’ll drop you home afterwards, don’t worry. And I know where the house is. I don’t think there’s a person left standing in Israel who doesn’t,’ he added with a dry laugh. ‘Didn’t the architects win an award for it?’

‘They did,’ Rebecca nodded. ‘But I find it a bit frightening, I have to confess. Not the sort of place you’d want to leave your washing out or your dirty dishes in the sink.’

‘Presumably why your dear mother has an army of staff. Shall we?’ He held open the door for her as she buttoned up her jacket and they stepped out into the cold night-time air.

‘I think this is the first time I’ve been here in winter,’ Rebecca said, pulling a scarf from her handbag. ‘It’s freezing.’

‘Oh, this is actually quite mild. Up north is where it gets really cold. Jerusalem, too. It snows occasionally.’

‘Do you live here?’ Rebecca asked curiously.

‘Some of the time. I spent most of my teens here . . . worked on a kibbutz, picked oranges, watermelons, that sort of thing.’

‘I can’t quite see you picking oranges,’ she said with a laugh.

‘Oh, you’d be surprised. Here we are.’ He disarmed the car, a sleek, glossy-looking affair that smelled of fresh leather and the faint lemony scent of men’s cologne. He held open the door for her. Rebecca slid in, unaccustomed to such good manners.

‘So,’ he said, getting in on the other side. ‘Where to?’

Rebecca leaned back into the soft leather seats. ‘You choose,’ she murmured, rather surprised by her own boldness. ‘You seem quite good at it.’

‘I am, aren’t I?’

She smiled but didn’t answer and turned to look out of the window at the city as he turned onto Ibn Gabirol, heading towards the centre. It really was a beautiful city, she thought to herself as the tall, elegant hotels that fringed the seafront flashed past, one after the other. Perhaps she ought to stay on a while? After all, it wasn’t as though she had anything urgent to return to. She smiled to herself. She couldn’t wait to tell Tash.

TASH
London

One last set of proofs to oversee and then she was done. Tash picked up the magnifying monocle and peered closely at the image in front of her. It was Gisèle, the Brazilian model-of-the-moment, all long golden limbs, flowing honey-coloured hair and that incredible face. The photo, shot by Steven Meisel, was stunning. Gisèle was stunning. The
location
– in front of a sun-drenched pool in Palm Springs – was stunning. It was all stunning. It was the cover photo for
Style
’s January issue and it would hit exactly the right note of sunny happiness that dreary, weary January sales shoppers would respond to. The only problem – and it was a big one – was that she’d just heard Anna Wintour was using Gisèle for
Vogue’s
January issue. Unthinkable for two rival magazines to feature the same girl, shot by the same photographer – even if the locations were different.
Vogue
had gone to Capri;
Style
to Palm Springs. It made no difference.
Style
would be accused of copying
Vogue
and Rosie would throw a fit. Playing second fiddle to
Vogue
was
not
where she wanted
Style
to be.

Tash had two options. One would be to let the
Style
cover stand as was and claim she hadn’t heard about
Vogue
’s plans. Rosie would throw her fit – and probably a crystal ashtray as well – and then threaten to sack Tash, a fairly routine occurrence. The other, involving a bit more work, was to run upstairs
now
, tell Rosie (and duck) and then be expected to come up with an alternative in twenty-four hours flat.

She pondered her options. Her eye fell upon the postcard that was pinned to the wall, just behind her computer. It had been there for ages. It was from Annick, sent long ago, on one of the long summer holidays she used to spend in Togo when they were at school. She’d found it in a box of old letters that had been lying at the back of her wardrobe for years. Looking at it produced the same old mixture of dread and longing that thinking about Rebecca and Annick always did. It was of the Gate of No Return, a monument to the slave trade in the town of Ouidah, in neighbouring Benin, not far from Lomé. She remembered receiving it, tracing the unfamiliar stamps with her finger, wondering what it must be like to be thousands of miles away from the familiar atmosphere of school.

She reached for the postcard, peeling it away carefully from the wall. She turned it over. Annick’s handwriting:
On an absolutely
interminable
state visit with Papa to Benin. Got dragged to see the Porte du Non Retour this morning. Awfully hot and dusty, but still quite sad. Maman complains all day long – you know what she’s like! Can’t wait for school to start! Miss you lots, A.

She stared at the image. Two silhouetted wrought-iron figures on either side of the painted stone arch. Wasn’t Ouidah the site from which hundreds of thousands of African slaves had departed for Brazil? She frowned and picked up the image of Gisèle again. Gisèle was Brazilian. She had no idea where Gisèle’s ancestors came from – somewhere in Germany by the look of her – but the link between her native country and the rugged, vibrant coast of West Africa might be worth thinking about. She switched on her computer. She needed to get a closer look.

An hour later she had the beginnings of a layout sketched out. She’d printed off half a dozen pictures of cheeky-faced, grinning children, lush, tropical landscapes and those stark, sombre monuments and slave castles that dotted the West African coast. She’d even thought of a title:
Going Back to Her Roots
. Her mind was whirring. They’d cancel Gisèle on the cover but they’d do a fabulous, six-page pullout spread with her inside the magazine instead. Rosie prided herself on being more creative and daring than anyone else in the business and it would be so much more than just an ordinary shoot. They’d get someone to write something about the location, the slave trade, the links with Brazil, Gisèle’s ancestry. Tash’s pencil flew across her notepad. A short story or two, perhaps by a well-known African or Brazilian writer, maybe showcase some local Brazilian design talent alongside the Dolce & Gabbana and Prada outfits she was already picturing. She almost bit the end off her pencil she was so excited.

Rosie looked as though she’d eaten something disagreeable. Across the table, Michelle and Andrea were silent. Tash frowned. What on earth was wrong? How could they
not
like it? It was a
brilliant
idea. ‘Is there something wrong?’ she asked finally. Michelle and Andrea exchanged nervous glances.

‘Tash, this is a
fashion
magazine,’ Rosie said finally. ‘A
fashion
magazine. We’re in the business of selling clothes, perfumes, lifestyle . . .
comprende
? We’re not the
Economist
or
Newsweek
. If your aim is to win the Pulitzer Prize, you might want to re-think where you are. All very
interesting
,’ she waved a languid hand in the general direction of the layout, ‘and fascinating
if
I wanted to know something about the trans-Atlantic slave trade,’ she paused dramatically, ‘but I
don’t.
I want to read about fashion, Tash. Not history.’

‘But—’

Rosie held up an imperious hand. ‘Enough.’ She looked at the enormous black Breitling she wore on her left wrist. ‘It’s one thirty. We’ve got until five to come up with an alternative cover. Find me an alternative or find yourself a new job.’ With that, she picked up her coat and bag and walked out of the room.

‘Hul
lo
,’ the woman behind the glossy white Corian counter looked up as Tash walked in. ‘Haven’t seen you in a while. Everything all right?’

Tash gave her a wan smile and shrugged. ‘Oh, you know how it is,’ she said with an exaggerated sigh.

The woman shook her head. ‘No, actually, I don’t. I don’t understand how
you
stand it, to be honest. You’re absolutely wasted there, Miss Bryce-Brudenell, absolutely wasted. Now, have you seen these?’ She pointed to a rack of clothes hanging to one side, still in their stiff plastic covers. ‘Diane von Furstenberg. Wrap-dresses. Di
vine
. No one else has ’em yet. I ordered them when I was in New York last month – they’ve just arrived.’

Tash’s mood suddenly lifted. The woman she was speaking to was Edith Berman, a small, rather severe-looking woman in her late fifties who looked more like the headmistress of one of those impeccably mannered girls’ schools somewhere in the New Forest than the owner of Eden’s, a small boutique just off the Marylebone High Street. Just as Edith couldn’t understand Tash’s career choice, there was much about Edith that Tash didn’t quite get. Formidably intelligent with a line in conversation that went from particle physics to the joys of organic silver, dressed mostly in Jil Sander with the most astonishing collection of jewellery Tash had ever seen, and grandmother to two adorable young boys, she’d run Eden’s with her late husband since the early seventies. There was no one quite like her. Despite Eden’s formidable success, they’d never opened another store; there was only one Eden’s, and it had always been in the same location on Moxon Street. She had very little time for the fashion ‘rat pack’, as she called them – the editors, stylists and their (thousands of) assistants who dictated what was ‘in’ and what wasn’t. Edith wasn’t interested in trends. She shopped with two things in mind: quality and originality and the women who came into Eden’s once, came back again. Again and again and again.

‘They’re lovely,’ Tash said, picking up one of the dresses and peering at the print through the plastic.

‘Take it out. Feel it. It’s silk. Silk jersey. Lovely against one’s skin.’

Tash smiled to herself. Edith sometimes spoke like royalty.
One’s skin
. Only Edith could say something like that. She carefully unsheathed the dress and held it against her, turning to look at herself in the mirror. A typically striking, stylish DvF print – large white tropical flowers against a mustard background. It was stunning, though not on her. ‘Lovely,’ she agreed. ‘She’s got such an eye.’

‘
I’ve
got such an eye, you mean,’ Edith smiled. ‘Though I do miss Seth. Now
there
was a man with an eye for colour – unbelievable what he’d find.’

‘Did you always work together?’ Tash asked curiously.

Edith nodded. ‘Right from the start. We opened up in 1972, can you believe it? Over thirty years we ran the shop together. Thirty-two years. Married for forty.’

Tash didn’t know what to say. She realised she knew very little about Edith’s private life. ‘Where’s that from?’ she asked, pointing to the exquisite cuff bracelet that Edith was wearing.

‘This? Oh, she’s one of my favourites. Kimberly McDonald. I just love the way she mixes things up. That’s agate and gold, and those are geodes,’ she said, pointing to the blue, purple and amber-hued stones, cut flat and polished to a high sheen. ‘Lovely, isn’t it?’

‘Where’s she based?’

‘South Carolina, of all places.’

‘How d’you ever find all these interesting designers?’ Tash asked.

Edith gave a small laugh. ‘Internet. Simple. It was Seth’s idea, really. He used to spend hours looking at sites, tracking down young designers. They’re all online these days.’

Tash nodded absently. She used the internet mostly for research – layouts, places, photographers and the like. The idea of Seth Berman, who must have been in his, sitting in their little office at the back of the shop, browsing, tickled her. ‘But isn’t it a nuisance?’

‘What d’you mean?’

‘Well, if you see something in—’

‘Edith? Oh, thank
God
you’re here!’ A woman’s voice cut her short. ‘It’s a complete disaster!’

‘Excuse me a moment,’ Edith said to Tash. ‘Let me just see to this. Clare’s a very dear customer.’

‘Of course. I’ll just browse; don’t mind me. I won’t be buying anything,’ Tash said with a grin. She moved off, leaving Edith to sort out whatever disaster was looming.

‘It’s just so
frustrating
,’ the woman named Clare wailed. She was holding out a dark grape dress that Tash recognised as Michael Kors. ‘I
love
it but the colours are all wrong. I want the orange one. I saw it in Milan last week and I should’ve bought it there are then. I told Declan but he thought the green suited me better. It doesn’t. It’s a
disaster
.’