Little White Lies (10 page)

  6

I don’t think I’ve ever been this nervous. Not even when I went for my job interview at Shannon’s. At least then I wasn’t pretending to be someone else. I sit on the tube convinced everyone is looking at me, wondering how I think I’m going to get away with it. I have nearly turned round to go home ten times already, and I’ve only just got on the tube at Notting Hill. There’s another six stops to go before I get to Oxford Street. Then I’ve got to walk down Regent Street, turn into Heddon Street, and I’ll be there. I check my watch—seven-thirty
P.M.
I take a deep breath—my heart is racing.

The thing is, I really didn’t want to go through with this. I mean, it’s going to be awful. But I couldn’t leave him waiting for me, could I? That’s just mean.

And when I got home this evening, there was a message on the answer phone from Pete. Not the usual “Give me a call, bye,” but a long message telling me he missed me and that maybe he’d come down and see me, if I wasn’t too tied up with my new friends . . . It was so obvious that Chloe had told him about my (fake) trip to Soho House and my (fake) boyfriend. I didn’t know whether to be happy that it had got a reaction, or sad that I had to make stuff up to get his attention.

And then when I tried on my new West Village top, it somehow seemed a shame not to be going out somewhere in it. Like it deserved to go to Momo. I looked in the mirror, and I didn’t see Natalie from Bath anymore. I saw . . . well, actually, I kind of saw Cressida Langton. Or at least I told myself that I could get away with being her. Cool girl-about-town. Member of Soho House. Invited to all the best parties. It just felt so good, standing there, thinking “I’m going to Momo tonight with a rich investment banker,” like it was a completely normal thing to be doing.

But that was then, and this is now, and I’m feeling sick to the stomach, if I’m absolutely honest. Who am I kidding? He’s probably called up Leonora already and found out all about Cressida and she probably looks nothing like me and he’s going to look at me strangely and say, “Is this some kind of joke?” And what will I say? “Oh, sorry, I thought the letter was from my own friend Leonora.” Or maybe, “I have amnesia and assumed I must be Cressida.”

I shouldn’t have opened the bloody letter. This time I’m afraid I might have bitten off more than I can chew.

Suddenly I have an idea. I don’t actually have to go through with the whole date. I could just turn up and say that Cressida has been unavoidably called away on business and she asked me to let him know. We could have a quick drink, like mature adults, and then go home.

I breathe a sigh of relief at this brilliant idea. I don’t have to pretend to be Cressida. I don’t have to go through with a whole evening of making up a whole new identity.

The tube arrives at Piccadilly Circus, and I make my way up the escalator. It’s even busier than it is during rush hour—I suppose everyone is on their way out to bars and clubs. I feel the adrenaline of London at night shoot through me and feel a frisson of excitement at being part of this great city where anything can happen.

Regent Street is awash with people and light, and I walk exuberantly down the street, wondering where everyone is going. I make a right into Heddon Street, and suddenly Momo is right ahead of me.

I can feel my heart begin to beat faster, and remind myself that I just need to go in, make Cressida’s apologies, and go. No problem. No need for my legs to feel like jelly. No need for my hands to be trembling.

I hang back for a few minutes to watch people walk in. They are the same sort of people that shop in Tina T’s—well-heeled, urban, cool, and confident. For a moment, I think about turning back. I don’t belong here. They’ll all be able to tell that I’m a clueless West Country girl who’s about as confident as an antelope entering a lion’s den. Simon Rutherford will take one look at me and burst out laughing. He’ll probably tell all his friends the story tomorrow at work. And they’ll laugh at me, too.

But before I can run away, someone looks at me and holds the door open for me. It’s a sign, I tell myself. I’ve got to go in. Clenching my fists, I force myself to take a deep breath, smile at the guy holding open the door, and walk into the restaurant.

It takes me a while to focus properly once inside—there are numerous tables dotted all around with people sitting and chatting, and my eyes dart from one table to the next trying to find Simon. I feel incredibly self-conscious, but everyone else seems absorbed in their own conversations and no one really notices me.

“Can I help you?” a girl dressed in black asks.

I smile nervously. “I’m meeting someone.”

“Name?”

“Cressida. I mean, no, Natalie . . .” I remember too late that I’m not posing as Cressida after all. “Natalie,” I say firmly.

The girl looks at me strangely and looks at the book in front of her. “Surname?” she asks me. “You know that, right?”

“Raglan,” I say, then realize that she’s looking for the booking name. That’ll be in Simon’s name. God, this is going so badly.

“Rutherford,” I quickly correct myself, then clear my throat because my voice is almost inaudible. “Simon Rutherford. Although,” I continue garrulously, before I can stop myself, “I’m not actually meeting him I mean, my friend was going to, but she can’t. I’m just here to let him know. I could just tell you, if you want . . . ?”

She peers at the list and turns over the page. “Ah, okay. Downstairs. Come with me.”

Evidently she is not going to pass on the message for me. I’m going to have to do it myself. Which is fine. I mean, how hard can it be?

I follow her through the restaurant and down a little flight of stairs that leads to a kind of Aladdin’s den with low tables and cool African beats playing. The girl nods toward the corner, and I follow the direction to see a figure sitting awkwardly at a table. His hair isn’t quite lying flat, and his intense brown eyes are studying something—I think it’s the menu. As I look at him, his eyes flicker upward and meet mine. For some strange reason, I don’t move immediately. I hear my heart beating and feel my hands go clammy. And then he smiles. It’s the sort of smile that takes up a whole face, that forces its way into every line and feature.

“Simon Rutherford?” the maître d’ asks briskly.

“Yes, yes, that’s me.” He looks up with a grin.

“I’m afraid your date can’t . . .”

“Simon, hi! I’m Cressida,” I say quickly, interrupting her. “How nice to meet you at last!”

I quickly sit down and stare at the maître d’ meaningfully. She raises her eyebrows and walks off toward the stairs.

“Cressida?” He smiles again. “It’s so nice to meet you.”

I can understand why he was studying the menu so intently. I mean, even the drinks menu is difficult to work out. Plus, I’m finding it hard to actually focus on the words. I keep looking at the lines of text that I know are in English and should be really easy to understand, but I can’t seem to spend long enough on any of the letters to make any sense of them.

To my relief, when the waiter asks us what we’d like to drink, Simon says that he’d like a beer. A beer—what a great idea. I nod in agreement and manage to say, “Yes, me, too.” Then I clear my throat again—for some reason reading is not the only thing I’m finding a challenge right now.

We sit in almost silence until the beers arrive, which isn’t that difficult because the music is pretty loud and we’re still trying to interpret the menu.

“So, is this one of your regular haunts?” I ask, before realizing that what I have just said amounts to about the worst chat-up line of all time—I mean, “Do you come here often?” is up there with “Is that a canoe in your trousers or are you just pleased to see me?” It’s awful. Awful!

“Actually, I’ve never been here before,” admits Simon. “I just thought it might be a nice idea—I only seem to know places in the City, really.”

I smile. I still can’t think of anything to say.

“And you? Where do you tend to go out in London?”

I think quickly I don’t want to admit that I hardly know London at all.

“I tend to stick to Notting Hill, where I live, actually,” I manage to say, going slightly red.

“Notting Hill? Oh, well, you’re far too cool for me then,” Simon says with a grin. “I don’t think they let people like me off the tube at Notting Hill. So have you lived there long?”

“Oh, you know, a while.” I shrug, trying to imagine what someone like Cressida would say. It’s hard to attempt an impersonation of someone you’ve never met.

As Simon studies the menu, I study him, taking in his open, warm face, his formal shirt that looks like it’s constraining him, even though the top button is undone. The jumper he’s wearing over it looks much more like the sort of thing he’d be comfortable in. His hands don’t look like City hands at all—if there is such a thing. They’re large, and not in the least manicured.

He’s frowning slightly, and I don’t think he’s particularly comfortable here. That makes me feel a lot better about feeling awkward myself. Maybe this isn’t going to be such a difficult evening after all—I can just relax and be myself.

As this thought crosses my head, I smile. Be myself? How can I, when he thinks I’m Cressida? It’s kind of ironic—at Canvas I pretended to be Cressida to give me confidence. Now I’m with someone who thinks I am Cressida, and I’m feeling more like myself? This goes way beyond irony.

I wonder idly what Cressida’s doing now. Maybe she’s out on her own date. I realize guiltily that it should be her sitting opposite Simon. I opened her letter and stole her blind date from her.

“Is everything okay?” Simon asks. I nod quickly and put Cressida out of my mind. I’m in the Big City now—you look after yourself here, right? It’s like Tina T’s. You don’t get your commission by worrying too much about other people.

“I’m absolutely fine,” I say, smiling. “So have you decided what you’re going to have?”

Simon opens his mouth to talk, but is interrupted by the waiter, who appears suddenly at his side.

“What can I get you?” he asks as I desperately revisit the menu.

“What would you recommend?” Simon asks him.

“The mezze is very good,” says the waiter, smiling. “And the merguez is very good to share . . .”

Simon raises his eyebrows at me, and I nod. “Sounds great!” I say, handing my menu back to the waiter.

“And some wine,” continues Simon. “Red or white?” he asks me.

“White, I think,” I say, then realize that merguez are sausages. They’d probably be better with red, wouldn’t they?

“No, red,” I say quickly. Except red always makes me sleepy. So white might be a better idea.

“Or white . . .”

Simon looks at me oddly, then smiles. “Tell you what,” he says, “let’s get a bottle of each. That way you can have either—or both—and if we end up getting drunk, I shall consider it a bonus.”

I smile at him gratefully. He didn’t get irritated by my indecision. Most people get exasperated, and the more cross they get, the less I’m able to make my mind up. I think I quite like Simon.

He orders the wine, then turns around and looks me right in the eye.

“I must say,” he says when the waiter has finally gone, “I do think you are incredibly brave. For calling me, I mean. It was really quite exciting to get your phone message. Not the usual sort of voice mail I get at the office. I wonder why Leonora thought of it?”

His eyes are penetrating mine, and it feels like he could probably read my thoughts if he wanted to. Although if he could, he’d know that Leonora didn’t think of it at all.

“I . . . I don’t know,” I say softly. “Maybe she just thought we’d get on. So, tell me about yourself.”

Simon sits back and smiles ruefully. “Not much to tell, I’m afraid. I work in the City in an incredibly dull job where I move money around in order to generate maximum profits for my bosses. I live in Chelsea in a flat that is hideously expensive but is near enough to the M4 for me to get out to Marlborough at the weekends whenever I’m not chained to my desk. That’s where my parents live. Where I grew up. What else? I can cook a great curry. I support Arsenal, and can’t hold a tune to save my life. And that’s about it. Simon Rutherford in a nutshell. So what about you, Cressida Langton?”