Little White Lies (40 page)

She turned the shower on and stepped back, waiting for it to warm up. Within seconds, small clouds of steam were puffing towards the ceiling. She stepped under it, gasping as the hot water cascaded over her. She turned her face carefully towards the jets, keeping her hair averted. Her hand went out blindly, automatically, towards the bottle of Chanel No. 19 shower gel that sat on the ledge. Its rich, sweet perfume mingled with the steam as she began soaping herself, long firm strokes from her clavicles, across her breasts and down the flat plane of her stomach to her thighs. She closed her eyes against the spray at the same moment her hands went over her breasts again. Her nipples hardened and she was aware of a faint, tingling heaviness in her abdomen; the beginnings of desire. How long had it been since that strange night with Julian? A week? She let her hand slide slowly down her stomach, now covered in sweetly-scented foam and then stop, hovering above the cleft between her legs. She could feel the corners of her mouth tug upwards as she parted her legs enough to allow the hot water to run between them, flowing over her clitoris and engorging it further. She turned and put a hand up against the wall, supporting herself with one as she pleasured herself slowly with the other. She was thinking about Julian as she stroked herself, but she was also aware of another hunger building inside her for something else . . . not Julian, not anyone she knew or recognised . . . someone else. Someone unknown. A vague face materialised in front of her, in her mind’s eye – a hand, a thigh, a glimpse of unfamiliar skin, a stranger’s touch. She turned her mouth towards her arm, biting her own skin, hard, almost drawing blood. She was Rebecca, Julian’s wife, and yet she was not. She bit herself again and heard her own groan as if it had come from someone else. Someone else. She both longed for it and longed to
be
it – someone else. She felt herself go weak at the knees and had to grab hold of the chrome pole of the showerhead to stop herself from falling.

YVES

The big fat man with the broad shoulders of someone accustomed to stopping others stood at the stove, shaking the curling rinds of bacon in a large frying pan. He paused to wipe his forehead. ‘Idiot,’ he snarled. ‘Fucking idiot.’ The two men standing by the window, casting a glance out every now and then to the ground floor, said nothing. He repeated the word to himself, lifting the pan off the flame and giving it a good shake. ‘You sure it’s her?’

One of the men nodded. ‘Yeah. We checked.’

The fat man moved the hissing pan from the gas hob and carried it over to the table. ‘How many?’ he asked.

‘Just us, boss.’

‘So where is he now?’ With a practised gesture he tilted the pan and the curled rinds, still sizzling, slid off and onto the waiting plate.

The man by the window shrugged. ‘No idea. Haven’t seen him since yesterday.’

There was a sudden rat-a-tat-tat at the door. All three froze. ‘Who is it?’ the fat man called out.

‘It’s me. Yves.’

The three men looked at each other. The fat one made a silencing gesture. ‘Not a
word
,’ he hissed, before ambling over to the door and flinging it open. ‘Where’s the boss? Weren’t you supposed to be with him tonight?’

Yves shook his head. ‘Na. He’s with someone. A new girl.’

One of the men by the window gave a mirthless laugh. ‘Man, you ever known anyone to get as much pussy as Chief? Every night it’s a different one. Good-looking ones too, eh? D’you see that one the other night, at the club? The
métisse
, what the hell was her name?’

‘Who cares?’ The fat man staggered back to the kitchen. He wiped his greasy hands down the front of his trousers.

‘I’m just saying—’ the man’s tone was aggrieved.

‘Well, don’t. Ain’t none of your business. Now, who wants fried and who wants scrambled?’

‘Fried.’

‘Yeah, fried’s good. Whatever’s going, Guido, man.’ The second of the two, having been reprimanded once, was eager to show the accommodating side of his nature.

‘You, Yves? What you want?’

‘Oh, nothing, Guido. I’m fine. I just ate.’

‘Yeah. And we all know who you ate with, too.’

‘Jesus,’ the fat man glared at him. ‘What did I just tell you?’

Yves felt a slight prickling at the nape of his neck. He looked at the three men, two of whom regarded him with grins that appeared almost insolent. Guido was back in the tiny kitchen, made even tinier by his bulk, which took up most of it. He looked over at the small dining table. The bacon was pooling in its own fat on the flowered plastic plate and next to it, there was a glass bowl of what looked like fried liver and onions. He felt suddenly nauseous, though the sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach had little to do with the food.

TASH

Now. Today. Today’s the day. At midnight tonight
. The words drummed through her like blood in her veins.
Now. Tonight. Today
. She lay in bed, the duvet pulled up halfway over her head as though she were hiding, not just from the world beyond her front door, but from herself. Outside, beyond the lightly curtained window, dawn was just breaking. Her breath rose and fell, stirring a feather that had somehow poked through her pillow case and lay trembling on the pale-blue bedspread. The early-morning sounds of the street below floated up: deliveries to the Sainsbury’s across the road, the stop/start, stop/start of the various vans that came to unload their wares. A street sweeper moved past slowly, steel brushes moving methodically across the uneven pavement; the sound of glass being hauled out of the recycling bins . . . all the dawn sounds that had become as familiar to her as her own breath over the past few months as she lay awake each morning in that semi-pleasurable, semi-fearful state of half-wakefulness. It was the time of day she liked best, that hour or so before the rest of the working world rose up. Sometimes she moved from dream to waking in a heartbeat, her mind already full of whatever problem she’d been trying to solve the night before. At other times, she floated slowly into consciousness, drifting along as her mind slowly emptied itself of a dream, recognisable only by its surreal quality.

She pushed away the duvet cover impatiently and swung her legs out of bed. She reached across and switched on the bedside light. At once the room was flooded and outside receded into darkness. She looked down at her legs in her flowered cotton shorts. They were pale and thin – paler and thinner than they’d been in months. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been in the sun. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been anywhere other than behind her desk, on the phone or in bed, asleep, or trying to sleep.

Today. Now. Tonight
. She yawned and stood up, stretching her equally pale and thin arms above her head. She headed to the bathroom. It wasn’t yet six a.m. but there was still so much to be done. She had a meeting at nine thirty a.m. with Susie Morgan at her Bond Street store – a last-minute, desperate pitch to get her to sign up. If it failed, she’d still managed to reach the target figure of ten. Ten well-established, cutting-edge designers who’d agreed to show their ranges via her website. It had taken her and Edith nearly four months to reach that number and they’d all agreed they wouldn’t go ‘live’ with less. She would spend most of the day in the office with the boys, crunching numbers, making sure there were no glitches on the site and that everything was ready by midnight. She was glad now that she’d stuck to her guns. With everything that still needed to be done, there was no way she’d have had the energy, let alone the attention span, to organise a launch. They would be up until well past midnight tonight – and probably every other night that week – checking, making sure, double- and triple-checking everything to make sure that their first customers had as smooth and pleasurable an experience as was possible. She felt an unfamiliar flutter in her stomach. It was excitement. The past few months had been run on adrenalin, fear and nerves. Now, with everything in place, it was time to get excited again.

She turned on the shower, pulled her T-shirt over her head and wriggled out of her shorts. The hot water hit her like a slap, blasting her properly awake.
Now. Today. Tonight
. She closed her eyes, savouring the peculiar combination of pleasure and fear. There would never be another day like this one, she thought to herself as she turned the taps off and pulled a towel off the rack. No matter what happened, whether they succeeded or failed, nothing would ever match it. She’d borrowed just over two million pounds of other people’s money and staked it and everything she had on an idea she’d had one afternoon in the middle of someone else’s shop. If she stopped to think about it – which she tried very hard not to – the thought of it was overwhelming. What if she were wrong? What if everyone else was right? She could see the doubt in their eyes. Luxury fashion? Online? Online shopping was for bargain hunters, not for the rich and famous, and certainly not for clothes.
She
knew they were wrong and she’d managed to persuade a few others to follow her in her vision of a brave, new, online world. But the doubts were still there. No matter how hard Rebecca tried to hide it, especially after their horrible argument, Tash knew that deep down she was worried on Tash’s behalf. It wasn’t just that she’d borrowed the money from Julian. In fact, that was the least of it; Tash knew the money wasn’t the issue. Julian was an investor who specialised in risk. If he didn’t think they had an outside chance of succeeding, he’d never have lent her the money. But that wasn’t the same as a guarantee that they’d succeed. Win some, lose some – that seemed to be the mantra he lived by, and whilst it was clear he hoped they’d be part of the former, it was also a given that they might not. Rebecca’s nervousness about her new venture was of an altogether different order but Tash couldn’t quite work out what, or why. All she knew was that it made her nervous too. After the row, Rebecca had done her utmost to be supportive, and encouraging, and Tash loved her for it, but there were moments when she caught Rebecca looking at her quizzically, as if trying to work something out. But what? She sighed. She had to stop thinking about it – there were other, far more pressing things to worry about today.

She towelled her hair dry, yanked her dressing gown off the back of the door and opened her wardrobe. It had been raining all week and although today it looked as though there’d be a break in the thick blanket of cloud that had swaddled the capital for what seemed like for ever, there was no guarantee that the sun would actually shine through. She took out a thin, woollen, black polo-neck sweater and a long midnight-blue pleated skirt. She held them up in front of the mirror – too sombre? She pulled a quick face. It was a sombre day. She would liven it up with a bold piece of jewellery. She turned away from the mirror, her mind already impatiently racing twenty paces ahead. Ten minutes later, her hair still damp and curling around her ears, she picked up her giant handbag, stuffed the last of the papers she’d been working on into it and closed her front door firmly behind her. Her mobile was already ringing by the time she reached the bus stop. Doubts or no, the day had finally arrived.
Cometh the hour
. She smiled to herself and was so wrapped up in her own thoughts she failed to notice the return smile the bus driver gave her.

Surprisingly, she wasn’t the first to arrive at the office. Both James and Colin were already at their desks, their faces lit up by the bluish-green glow of their screens. The three young interns they’d brought with them – Justin, Jake and Freddie – were busy behind their own screens. All five looked as though they’d been there all night.

‘Hi,’ she said, shrugging off her coat and bringing up a stool to perch beside James. A thrill of excitement ran through her. The logo –
her
logo – flashed across the screen, followed by the opening shots of the four fashion shows – London, Paris, Milan and New York. They’d tracked down the photographer, a young German, whose fresh portraits of the frenzied, behind-the-scenes creativity of the shows were exactly what Tash was looking for – beautifully composed without ever appearing contrived. Just like us, she mused.

‘Looks good, doesn’t it?’ James murmured, scrolling briskly across the pages. ‘Izzy’s working on putting the last few touches to everything. We’ll test everything in about half an hour.’

‘Fantastic,’ Tash murmured. ‘Yup, it’s all coming together.’

‘What d’you want to do about these?’ James pointed to a list of links on the right-hand side of the screen. ‘We still don’t have copy for them.’

‘Give me ten minutes.’ Tash hopped off the stool. ‘I’m on it.’

‘Good girl.’ James went back to his own job.
Fourteen hours, thirteen minutes, twenty-two seconds and counting
. The countdown to midnight was projected against the rear wall. Tash looked up and down the long desk to her right and left. Everyone was busy – she ran down the list of names; aside from herself, Colin, James and Edith, they now employed Justin, Jake, Freddie, Günther, Izzy, Delores, Tabitha, Caleb, Ashley, Anna B and Ana V – ‘B’ for Bridgeman, ‘V’ for Vasconcelos. Fifteen people. If things went well, Julian told her, in six months’ time she’d double that and by the end of the year, she’d have quadrupled her staff.
If
things went well.

She turned back to the task in hand and switched on her own screen. Trends.
As seen on. Occasion
. She paused for a second, then her fingers hit the keyboard and she furiously began to type. It took her ten minutes to complete the first draft and by the time she’d finished, her fingers were shaking. The moment she’d been waiting for all her life had finally arrived. All she could think about was how badly she needed a drink.

‘Arriving at one goal is the starting point to another.’
John Dewey

TASH
London

Music was blaring from the giant speakers placed at the entrance to the former church. A row of bouncers who wouldn’t have looked out of place at an East End nightclub were holding back the crowd of exceedingly well-dressed and exceedingly desperate-looking women trying to get in. Standing a little way behind them, her fur collar turned up as far as it could go, Tash took a last drag on her cigarette and ground it out underfoot. She shoved her hands in her pockets and moved forwards, trying to avoid catching anyone’s eye, especially the bald-headed bouncer who was busy sorting out the wheat from the chaff, or whatever the expression was. ‘You, yeah, you . . . in the pink coat. Yeah, come on in.’ He lifted up the cordon and the girl in the pink coat skipped gleefully through. ‘And you, love, yeah . . . that’s right. I remember you.’ Another anointed young woman was beckoned in. ‘No, not you. By invitation only. Yeah, well, she showed me her invitation earlier. Hey, I said
no
!’ He stretched out a hand to catch someone who was trying to slip in unnoticed. Nothing got past him.