Little White Lies (50 page)

REBECCA

The countryside was shrouded in thick, dense mist that parted like a heavy curtain as they approached. The large car ate up the miles as they turned down one country road after another, often coming upon a clump of trees or a low, moss-covered stone wall seconds before they were swallowed up again. Rebecca sat in the back seat, directly behind Julian and pretended to be asleep. Out of the corner of her eye she could see Miranda Grayling’s shapely knees peeking out from the hem of her exquisitely tailored skirt. Rebecca knew it was exquisitely tailored because Miranda had told her so. ‘Yves Saint Laurent,’ she said, noticing Rebecca’s gaze. She even did a little twirl. ‘
Exquisite
tailoring, don’t you find?’ Rebecca was so taken aback she could think of nothing to say. She’d looked down at her own outfit – skinny jeans, a pair of Todd’s slip-ons and a black leather jacket – and felt childish and under-dressed. She’d mumbled something indistinct and turned away. Now, sitting next to the
exquisitely
tailored Miranda, listening with half an ear to the conversation between the three of them – Miranda, Jeff Morgenstein and Julian – she wished desperately she were elsewhere. More precisely, with Tash and Annick. It was going to be a long, boring weekend.

‘Look, it’s just common sense,’ Miranda was saying earnestly. ‘In difficult times, people always go to prime and London’s always going to be regarded as a safe investment. Look at Land Securities last month. Someone made an awful lot of money structuring
that
deal, I can tell you.’

‘Who did the legals?’

‘Macfarlane’s. I had dinner last week with Phil Macfarlane and the Russians. I probably shouldn’t be telling you this but—’

‘Oh, go on. You’re amongst friends. For now, at least. Wait until the Arabs get wind of the deal. We’ll not be quite as friendly then, you know, darling.’ There was a burst of half-stifled laughter from the car’s other occupants. Like teenagers, Rebecca thought to herself angrily. How on earth was she going to get through an entire weekend with them? They talked business, business, business . . . nothing else.

‘Is she asleep?’ Julian turned his attention away from the road for a second.

‘Went out like a light,’ Miranda said smugly. ‘Soon as the engine started. I used to do that as a child, you know.’ Rebecca shut her eyes even more tightly. Bitch!

‘She’s worn out, poor thing,’ Julian murmured.

‘Poor thing,’ Miranda echoed, though she sounded anything but sympathetic. ‘Did you hear back from the Russians, by the way?’ she went on, making it clear she wasn’t the slightest bit interested in hearing about poor Rebecca.

‘Yes, we’ve got a meeting set up in a couple of weeks’ time. They want to meet in Geneva. Everyone okay with that?’ Julian’s tone returned to the serious business of making money.

‘Fine by me,’ Morgenstein grunted his assent. ‘Damn, it’s beautiful down here. You married well, my boy,’ he murmured. There was an answering chuckle from both Julian and Miranda. Rebecca’s jaw tightened.

A couple of hours later, she stood at the window of the Great Room looking out over the deer park. Four long, elegant windows, each framing a different view. It had been years since she’d been to Brockhurst. She remembered the first time she’d come here as a child. She’d looked out over the misty gardens and slowly understood that it was actually one stretch of land out there, and that it belonged to them – everything, the trees, the cropped, neat lawns, the wild grasses beyond, the deer who looked up occasionally and, when the gamekeeper approached, kicked up their heels gaily, their soft, pale rumps dancing from side to side, racing off into the distance. It was all theirs; her father owned the gardens down below and the fields she could see in the near distance and the one further off and the one after that, too, all the way to the powdery blue haze of the hills on the horizon, beyond which was the sea. It seemed to stretch to infinity.

The interior of Brockhurst too was unusual, an unbalanced mixture of the heavy, ornate decor that her grandmother, Sara, whom Rebecca had never met, favoured, and Embeth’s lighter, more contemporary touches. It seemed odd that Embeth too had never met Sara. By the time Lionel travelled to Venezuela, Sara was already gone, yet her presence was still very much there in the St James’s apartment that Lionel occasionally used and here, in Brockhurst. The shelves of the library and the hallway groaned under the weight of her books. In the early sixties, when the German government finally returned the house in Altona to the family, together with all its furniture and the precious artworks, Lionel gave in to Embeth’s request. She didn’t want her mother-in-law’s possessions in Harburg Hall where she’d see them on a daily basis. She asked Lionel to send them to Brockhurst, as far away from London as possible. The books were yellow now, hidden under dust covers for most of the year.

She turned from the window suddenly feeling restless. It was time to get ready for dinner. A beautiful papaya-hued silk dress by Alberta Ferretti lay on her bed, something Tash had picked out for her, of course. With its long, flattering dropped waist, it was a modern take on the twenties flapper dress. It suited her and she needed the boost. All afternoon she’d felt like the proverbial third spoke (or wheel?) in the conversations between Julian, Jeff, Miranda and their guests. At one point, she’d wandered into the kitchen, bored stiff from listening to a conversation she neither understood nor felt confident enough to take part in. There was a man sitting down beside the Aga, chatting to Mrs Griffiths, the housekeeper. It was the bodyguard. One of the Arab financiers had brought him along. He jumped to his feet as soon as she entered.

‘Oh, God, sit down, do. It’s not 1914,’ she smiled. She turned to Mrs Griffiths. ‘Haven’t seen you in
ages
, Mrs Griffiths. How are you?’

‘Very well, thank you, Miss Harburg. Or should I say, “Mrs Lovell”? Congratulations.’

‘Thanks. I’m still getting used to it. I’m keeping my name, though. It’d feel strange to change it.’ She glanced at the bodyguard, who was sitting with a teacup balanced awkwardly on his thighs. He
looked
like a bodyguard, she thought to herself with a quickening of interest. Tall, broad, a solid wall of chest and shoulders, an impassive, expressionless face. Where was he from? she wondered idly. ‘You’re with Mr Al-Amar, aren’t you?’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

‘Have you been with him long?’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

‘Rebecca? Where the hell are you?’ It was Julian. Whatever conversation she’d hoped to have with the handsome bodyguard was abruptly cut short.

‘Coming,’ she called out reluctantly. ‘Well, I’ll . . . I’ll leave you to it,’ she said to Mrs Griffiths, who was busy rolling out pastry. She pushed herself off the counter and smoothed down her skirt. She turned to go, but not before she’d caught the quick, unspoken flash of interest in the bodyguard’s eyes. She walked to the door, conscious of his dark eyes on her.

The conversation at the dinner table rose and fell around her in waves, washing over her in a sea of dull, bored incomprehension. Although it was in English, it might as well have been in Arabic for all she understood of it. Bonds, mortgages, rates, values, taxes, derivatives, markets . . . their voices droned on and on. She looked around her at their guests. They were a rather unlikely mix. Julian was at the head of the table, grey-haired, formal, a little stiff in his manner, holding forth. Next to him was that awful man from New York whose eyes oscillated between cleavages – hers and Miranda’s. Both were on prominent display. She’d be damned if she was going to let Miranda’s voluptuous chest outdo hers. Miranda was sitting opposite Julian; every so often, Rebecca saw his eyes wander in her direction. She was obviously enjoying it. She wore the smug, self-satisfied smile of a cat that had got its prey. What the hell did she have to look so satisfied about? Rebecca thought to herself crossly. Whatever it was, she’d managed to grab and hold the attention of every single man present, even the Arabs. Rebecca sat to Julian’s left, saying little and feeling almost invisible. She stifled a yawn. No one would notice if she disappeared for half an hour, would they? She looked around her. They were all still busy talking, talking, talking.

She put her napkin carefully to one side and stood up. No one even looked up. She walked quickly from the room.

‘Oh!’ Rebecca put a hand up to her throat. ‘You scared me! I didn’t think anyone was in here.’
Liar
, she thought to herself.

‘I’m sorry, ma’am. I was told to wait in here.’ The bodyguard, who’d been sitting by the fire, immediately got to his feet.

‘No, no, it’s fine. I . . . I just wanted a moment alone, that’s all. It’s hard work, all this . . . this
talking
,’ she giggled, waving her wine glass in front of her face. They were in the study on the ground floor, a few doors down from the formal dining room where she’d left the others talking business. She walked over to the window, one arm folded across her stomach, the other holding her half-empty glass. The silk of her dress fanned out in luxurious waves behind her. She could hear the material sliding softly over her bare skin, as he could. She could tell by the way he held himself – stiffly, to attention – that she was having the desired effect.
What the hell are you doing?
a tiny voice inside her head piped up. She turned, hiding her face behind her glass. ‘Drink?’ she asked nonchalantly, bending forward ever so slightly. The dress was cut to a deep V. From where he sat awkwardly on the sofa, she’d given him quite an eyeful.

‘Er, no, ma’am. I . . . I don’t drink.’

‘On the job or in general?’

He seemed even more uncomfortable. ‘I . . . it’s against our religion.’

So he
was
an Arab. ‘Where are you from?’ she asked curiously.

‘Tunis.’ He seemed about to say something further, then changed his mind. He glanced at her cleavage, then looked away, clearly embarrassed. Emboldened, Rebecca moved away from the window and sat down on the leather Chesterfield opposite him. She lifted a leg slowly and crossed it over her knee, smoothing down the cascading silk of her dress and tossing her thick mane of hair over her shoulder.
You’re such a slut
. She suppressed a smile at the sound of her own inner voice.

‘What’s your name?’ she asked conversationally, taking a sip of her wine. ‘And call me Rebecca. No one ever calls me “ma’am”. Makes me feel
old
.’

There was an awkward pause as they both looked at each other. He frowned. ‘What’re you playing at?’ he asked quietly.

Rebecca blinked. All of a sudden he sounded distinctly English. ‘I . . . I don’t know what you mean,’ she stammered, confused. Her heart began to beat faster. Suddenly what had started out as one of her little games didn’t seem quite so much fun anymore.

‘I think you know exactly what I mean.’ He got to his feet and looked down at her for a moment. ‘You lot are all the same,’ he said slowly, shaking his head.

Rebecca’s mouth opened in surprise. ‘You seem awfully sure of yourself,’ she said, her voice hardening.

His eyes didn’t leave her face. ‘No more so than you.’ Some new, hostile understanding had sprung up between them.

Rebecca’s pulse began to race. This wasn’t quite what she’d planned. ‘Look, I just thought—’

‘I know what you thought, Mrs Lovell. Like I said, you’re not the first bored housewife to try it on.’ He laughed but there was no humour in his voice. He straightened his jacket, then turned and walked out, leaving a shaking Rebecca behind. She put her empty wine glass on the carpet and leaned forwards, burying her face in her hands. What was she
thinking
?
Slut
. Her irritating inner voice piped up again.
Stupid, silly slut
.

YVES
London

He walked up Marylebone High Street, stopping every once in a while to look up at the shop fronts, checking off the numbers, one by one. New Cavendish Street, Weymouth Street, Paddington Street – his mouth moved awkwardly over the unfamiliar syllables. There. There it was. On the corner of Devonshire Street. Number sixty-one. He crossed the road, narrowly avoiding a cyclist, and stopped in front of the dark-green door. There was a brass plaque to the right; he consulted the names. Yes, halfway down, in plain, no-frills script, was the business he was looking for.
[email protected]
. On the first floor. He put out a gloved finger and pressed the bell.

‘
[email protected]
.’ A brisk, very English-sounding voice.

‘Er, good morning. I’m . . . I’m looking for Miss Bryce-Brudenell.’

‘Is she expecting you?’

‘Er, no. Not exactly. I’m . . . well, I’m a friend of a friend of hers. I’m trying to find someone. I’m in London for a few days and I hoped . . . well, I just hoped I might be able to catch her.’

‘Um, why don’t you come up? You can speak to her PA.’ The buzzer sounded loudly, unlocking the door. He stepped inside. The foyer was tiny, with barely enough room for a potted plant and a radiator. The lift doors were directly in front of him. First floor. He pressed the button and the doors slid open soundlessly onto a large, all-white space with a gleaming white reception counter. Behind it sat a young woman, also dressed in white. Behind
her
, in yellow neon, the words
[email protected]
flickered on and off. Yves swallowed nervously. He wasn’t used to such places. He approached cautiously.

‘Hi. I rang from downstairs.’

The receptionist looked him up and down. ‘You’re the one looking for Miss Bryce-Brudenell, is that right?’

He nodded. ‘I should’ve rung first, I know. She doesn’t actually know me, that’s the thing. I’m a good friend of a friend of hers, Annick Betancourt.’

‘Oh, right. Um . . . hang on just a moment.’ She got up and walked round the desk. ‘I’ll just be a sec.’ She skipped across the white-tiled floor and disappeared into an adjacent office. Two minutes later, she was back. The phone had started to ring again. ‘Just have a seat,’ she instructed breathlessly, rushing to answer it. ‘Miss Bryce-Brudenell will be out in a minute. Yes, over there. I’ll get you some coffee.’ She picked up the phone. ‘Fashion dot
com
,’ she sang into the mouthpiece. ‘Good morning!’