Little White Lies (61 page)

Annick in particular found it hard to believe. Tash had always been so adamantly opposed to doing
anything.
But, a fortnight after meeting Adam, she’d completely and utterly transformed herself. There was no question she didn’t look stunning. She did. But it just didn’t quite add up. And now, here she was, about to get married. ‘I can’t believe it,’ Tash kept on repeating, every time she caught sight of herself or saw a photograph.

‘Well, if
you
can’t believe it, think about how we feel,’ Rebecca had quipped once, earning herself the most spectacular black look from Tash in return. She’d shut up after that.

Annick sighed and switched on the kettle. Didier was asleep in the living room and Yves wasn’t due back until the following morning. He’d been in Shanghai on business for the past few days. Did she miss him? She couldn’t tell. She couldn’t tell much these days. Her whole world had been turned upside down and there were mornings when it was hard to tell which way was up.

She made herself a cup of tea and took it through to the living room. She curled up on the sofa, feet tucked up underneath her, watching her son. He slept in the swing chair Rebecca had passed down from the twins, blissfully unaware of the turmoil inside his mother’s head. His eyes were tightly shut. He’d inherited her light-brown curly hair but not her green eyes. His eyes were dark, inscrutable pools, much like his father’s. There was an unanswered question hovering at the edge of her consciousness that surfaced again now, as she sat sipping her tea. If she
did
bring it up, what would that mean? What would happen then? If he did admit to having deceived her, could she live with that? And if she couldn’t, could she bear to leave? What was it her mother had said to her once?
Don’t ask, don’t tell
. She could no longer remember the context or the conversation, just that it had surprised her at the time. Did her parents have secrets? Clearly they did. And the name Ameyaw was one of them. There was only one question worth asking, and answering, on the subject of secrets. Did she have the courage to unearth them?

REBECCA
Tel Aviv

Two thousand miles away, unbeknownst to her, Rebecca was asking herself the very same question: when is the right time? Tash’s wedding was a fortnight away. A fortnight after that, she was due to give birth. The red light of dawn flooded the room. Somewhere on the street outside, a rising wail lingered, fading away, then returning again, louder each time. She opened her eyelids. Beside her, Julian stirred in his sleep. She rolled herself carefully away from him, trying to get out of bed without waking him. She carefully levered herself upright.

A month to go. If the baby came out favouring Julian, well, at least things on the home front could – and would – stay as they were. She’d continue seeing Tariq as and when she could. Nothing would change. Tariq’s wife and family were in Connecticut. He would continue to commute to them just as she commuted between London and Tel Aviv. For the past few months, they’d tried to time their respective visits so that they were both away at the same time and there was some strange comfort to be had in the synchronicity of their deception.
He
told lies;
she
told lies. He was with his wife; she was with Julian. But when he was with her, for her at least, no one else existed. Not even her children. What was it about Tariq Malouf that held her so deeply, as if in the grip of a curse? She had never tried to explain it to anyone, not even to herself. It wasn’t just physical, though she never tired of looking at him, gazing at his face and body as if trying to commit every single line, every plane, every curve and contour to memory. No, there was something else. Some other, deeper attraction that had to do with the way he was both bound to, and totally different from, her.

She loved the fact that they’d known each other once, too far back in the mists of childhood for her to remember – the feeling of coming ‘home’, as she put it to herself, to someone who knew her not just as the empty vessel that was Julian’s wife and Lionel’s daughter, but as someone
else
. Someone in her own right, her own mind, in possession of her own thoughts and opinions, many of which clashed with his. For the first time in her life, he was a man who didn’t see her through the veil of wealth. Tariq’s interest in her as a Harburg had nothing to do with
that
. For him, the Harburg legacy was political, social, historical . . . certainly not financial. In addition to the deep, warm sensuality he coaxed from her, and not just in bed, he’d given her an insight into Lionel that not even Embeth appeared to know. To the outside world, Rebecca Harburg and Tariq Malouf came from two opposite ends of the same equation. From Tariq, she learned that it was a definition Lionel himself would have resisted – and did. The connections between the two families bound them together in a way that she’d never expected to find, let alone understand. Through him, she did. For the first time in her adult life, Rebecca felt dangerously close to complete. It was ironic, she thought to herself with a small, unhappy smile. She had to stray outside her marriage and outside the cosy circle of her family to find out who she really was.

But what if the baby came out differently? What then? Julian had never met Tariq. There was no reason to suppose anyone would suspect him, or anyone else. But
she
would know. And then what? Hard as it was to believe, she had no idea who the father might be.

She opened the bedroom door and padded carefully into the hallway. She walked slowly down the corridor to the kitchen, her hand holding her dressing gown over her enormous belly. She made herself a cup of tea, carrying it through into the living room, and sat down in front of the sliding doors to watch dawn break over the city. The prayer call had faded away. Now all she could hear was traffic.

Suddenly a blue light began to flash at her feet. She looked down at the ground. Julian’s phone was lying face down; it must have fallen out of his pocket. She picked it up, idly glancing at the screen.
Miranda (mobile). Missed calls (7). Miranda (home/Dubai). Missed calls (2). You have two new voicemails. Please dial 121. Last call: Miranda (mobile)
. She frowned. What the hell did Miranda want? She couldn’t stand the woman. Her fingers hovered over the screen. If she opened up one of the messages, Julian would know. She hesitated for a moment, then put it back down. Hell, who was
she
to question
him
? She was carrying a child that might not be his!

She looked over at the home phone sitting on the console next to the television. There were moments when she longed to pick up the phone and tell Tash, Annick . . .
any
one. But it was no time to burden anyone, least of all Tash. With less than a fortnight to go to her wedding, hearing about someone else’s marital woes was the last thing on her mind. She gave a small, rather unhappy little smile. Who’d have thought it? After all this time, Tash was finally getting married. She had it all, now – everything within her grasp. Of the three of them, she’d started out with the least, and had made the most. And it was all hers. No one else’s.

‘What’re you doing up so early?’ Julian’s voice broke the silence. She jumped.

‘Oh . . . nothing. I was just . . . I couldn’t sleep so I made myself a cup of tea.’

‘And didn’t drink it,’ Julian said, looking at her cup. He looked down at the blinking blue phone. ‘Oh,
there
it is. I’ve been looking everywhere for the damned thing.’ He bent down and picked it up, scrolling through the messages. His expression changed suddenly.

‘Everything okay?’ Rebecca looked up at him.

He nodded distractedly and hurriedly left the room. Rebecca looked down at her hands. Yes, she envied Tash, in more ways than one.

TASH
London

‘To have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, until death do us part.’ Her voice was steady but her hands were not. Her fingers, underneath Adam’s, were trembling.

‘You have declared your consent before the Church. May the Lord in his goodness strengthen your consent and fill you both with his blessings. That God has joined, man must not divide. Amen.’

‘Amen.’ The congregation gathered in St James’s Church in Holland Park murmured reverentially. There was a sudden commotion at the front. Lyudmila had fainted.

‘She just keeled over!’ Annick laughed, holding Didier on her hip. ‘Like a light.’

‘Well, she’s been waiting for this day for thirty-six years,’ Tash said drily. ‘No bloody wonder.’

‘Is she all right?’

Tash waved a hand. ‘She’s fine. Needed an excuse to have a drink, if you ask me.’ She looked over to where Lyudmila was sitting surrounded by concerned strangers, absolutely in her element. As soon as Tash broke the news of their engagement, Lyudmila quickly reacquainted herself with the ladies-that-lunch of Tash’s childhood, Ladies Soames and Davenport chief amongst them.

‘Natasha, darling . . . I just knew you’d go far,’ Lady Soames trilled when she stepped forward to offer her congratulations.

‘It’s Tatiana, actually. And how’s that son of yours? Robert, was it?’

‘Er, Rupert. Splendid, splendid. Yes, just splendid.’

‘Any grandchildren?’

‘Er, no. He’s . . . well, he’s . . . um, he’s—’

‘Queer, or so I hear.’ Tash swiftly moved down the line.

‘Bitch,’ Adam whispered in her ear, grinning. ‘You are
such
a bitch!’

‘She deserves it. And so does he. Oh, you
shouldn’t
have . . . why, thank you. That’s so kind of you.’

And all around them, flashbulbs went off. It was quite some wedding.

JULIAN

‘She looks ready to pop,’ Miranda murmured, looking at Rebecca from behind the honey-toned safety of her champagne glass. ‘Poor thing.’

‘Yes, well, can we forget about Rebecca and concentrate on the matter at hand?’ Julian said tetchily.

‘There’s nothing you can do.’ Miranda’s plum-coloured fingernails were wrapped around her glass. ‘You’ll just have to wait and see.’

‘I can’t just bloody “wait and see”,’ he snapped.

‘Why not? What’s the rush?’

‘Miranda, for Christ’s sake, there’s a lot at stake here. If Tash . . . look, never mind. Just get an agreement signed, will you? I’ll feel a heck of a lot happier once there’s something in writing.’

‘But that’s not the way they work, darling. You
know
that. They’ll come through, I promise. It’s a minor delay. The old man probably wants to check the property out himself. I’ve got it all under control.’

‘You said that a month ago. I don’t know how long I can keep this up!’ Julian stopped abruptly. He ran a hand through his hair. ‘Get me something on paper,’ he hissed angrily. ‘Just do it!’

‘Don’t you snap at me,’ Miranda glared at him. ‘And don’t you
dare
try and order me around. I’m not your wife, you know.’

‘I’m hardly about to make
that
mistake,’ Julian glowered at her.

Miranda smiled, that lethal smile of hers that he’d seen reserved for others, a combination of sarcasm and seduction. He’d never seen it directed at him, until now. Underneath his elegant suit, he was sweating. It had been a hellish day. In his wildest dreams he couldn’t have predicted the outcome of Adam’s arrival at Brockhurst Hall . . .
marriage?
He’d expected him to make a pass at her – he was Adam Goldsmith after all – but when Rebecca told him he’d proposed – on one knee too, the prick – he’d almost swallowed his fork. ‘He wants to
marry
her?’ he’d choked.

‘What’s wrong with that?’ Rebecca looked at him across the breakfast table.

‘N-nothing,’ he said hastily, swallowing a mouthful of orange juice. ‘I’m just . . . surprised, that’s all.’

‘I know you don’t think she’s much to look at,’ Rebecca said crossly, ‘but Tash is a fucking exceptional woman.’

He’d stared at her, for once unable to think of anything to say. For one thing, it was so unlike Rebecca to swear. He’d finished off his breakfast in silence.

That was three months ago and now here they were, watching the happy couple move regally down the line of invited guests, invited and not-quite-invited journalists and personalities from Tash’s world, and the odd figure or two from Adam’s. He had no idea how intertwined Tash and Adam already were or if Adam was privy to Tash’s business affairs but if he were . . . he began to sweat again, profusely.

‘Excuse me,’ he muttered abruptly, pushing past a surprised Miranda and heading for the toilets. He
had
to calm down. Once inside, he peeled off his jacket, unbuttoned his shirt and splashed some cold water on his face. He grabbed a wad of tissue paper and quickly patted himself dry under the arms and down his chest. He caught sight of his own face in the mirror and quickly looked away.

TASH

The day passed in a blur of good wishes and high drama – the highest point of which was her mother passing out, of course – punctuated every so often by moments of serene detachment. She’d tried to keep the numbers reasonable. There were two hundred invited guests and some two hundred-odd journalists, photographers and hangers-on, most of whom were camped on the other side of the road opposite the beautiful church with its magnificent rose garden and forecourt, lenses trained on the wedding party. She still couldn’t get over how much interest her nuptials had generated. Who cared? It was good for business, her partners kept telling her. ‘Everyone loves a happy ending,’ James said firmly. And hers was one of the happiest around, or so everyone seemed to think. Edith was somewhere in the church, beaming with as much pride as if it had been her own daughter. It was almost comical. There she was, a successful, hard-working and ambitious businesswoman and the only thing people were interested in was how much her plastic surgery had cost and whether or not she’d snagged her man before or after she’d had it done.
Snagged?
She’d looked at the hapless journalist who’d asked the question and only just managed to turn away before she slapped her.
Snagged?