Little White Lies (16 page)

“Chloe, you look amazing,” I tell her.

“I should bloody hope so after all this work. Still, it’s not every night you get to go out in London, is it? So come on, Natalie, where are we going to go? Impress me!”

“Okay . . .” I say hesitantly. “Would Soho House be impressive enough for you?”

It takes me a while to calm Chloe down. Mainly because it takes me a while to calm myself down, too. The adrenaline courses through my veins as I’m pulled between two thoughts. One: We’re going to Soho House! Two: We’re going to get thrown out of Soho House for impersonation!

Chloe, meanwhile, can’t seem to contain her excitement. “Natalie, you are just the coolest. I was hoping you might take me there—I mean, when you said you were going there when I called you that time, I was so jealous. And I told everyone at Pete’s party—he was really impressed, by the way. Kept asking me about you and what you’re doing in London and stuff. And . . . oh God, I’m babbling, aren’t I? Fuck it, we’re going to Soho House!”

I grin inanely, trying to suppress the knowledge that this could—and indeed is likely to—go horribly wrong. And then a genuine smile starts to work its way onto my face. I mean, actually, it’s probably not that hard. I think I’ve demonstrated that telling a few white lies here and there is not only easy to do, but that it also gets results. Just look at the evidence—things worked out pretty well with Simon, didn’t they? I got round the problem of not being a Reiki healer okay, didn’t I? Quite frankly, being honest hasn’t got me very far in the past. Whereas, since I opened Cressida’s mail, I’ve met Simon, impressed everyone back home, and now have a Soho House membership card. I think we’re going to have a great night.

Checking that the card is still in my pocket, I grab my bag, and take Chloe’s arm.

“Okay, let’s go!” I say happily, letting the door slam behind us.

We don’t go to Soho House right away. I mean, you have to work up to a blag like that. To be honest, I’m not really sure what to expect, which makes it difficult talking to Chloe about it because she wants to know everything, from what the bar is like to what the loos are like and whether they have dancing on a Saturday night.

So, as we sip our cocktails at the Soho branch of All Bar One, the restaurant chain, I manage to convince her I’ve never been to Soho House on a Saturday, despite the fact that the night she called and I said I was going there it was a Saturday. Then I describe the place based on photos that were in the program—full of squishy leather seats and old battered wooden floorboards. I’m worried that I’m getting a bit too good at making things up, but every time I move I can feel the membership card in my pocket, reminding me that things could soon go horribly wrong.

Luckily by the time we’ve finished our two cosmopolitans, we’re both pretty tipsy and Chloe seems to have forgotten most of what I’ve told her because she keeps asking me the same questions, her voice gradually getting louder and louder.

I drain my drink and look at my watch. Nine-thirty
P.M
.

I thought a couple of drinks would make me feel more confident, more blasé. But instead it’s just made me feel even more apprehensive. How stupid will I look if we don’t get in?

“Shall we get some more drinks in?” I say brightly, trying to postpone the inevitable. I’m trying to convince myself that one more drink will make all the difference. But Chloe shakes her head.

“No, I think we should go now. I mean, the celebs with babies may have to get back to their baby-sitters by eleven
P.M
. If we don’t go soon, we’ll miss them.”

“What?” I say incredulously. “Do you realize how ridiculous that sounded?”

Chloe looks at me crossly. “They have All Bar Ones in Bath,” she says pointedly. “And babies or no babies, I think we should go now. Unless you want to stay here, of course. I mean, we don’t have to go to Soho House if you don’t want to.”

“No,” I sigh, “we can go now.” I can’t think of any other excuses, and she’s right—All Bar One is hardly the epicenter of London nightlife.

“Don’t look too enthusiastic,” says Chloe, looking curiously at me, but I avoid her gaze. In a few minutes when we’ve been refused entry to Soho House, I’m going to have a lot of explaining to do. But that’s later. Right now, my challenge is actually finding the place.

“Okay,” I say purposefully as we emerge into the Soho night air. We need Greek Street. Which is . . . that way.

I memorized the map for Soho on the wall at Oxford Street tube before we came to the bar, but I’m not convinced I’ve got my directions right. I can’t remember if we’re facing north or south. Or, for that matter, which way is east and which is west. I’ve never been too hot on orientation, and two cocktails have not helped matters much.

We walk down Old Compton Street for about ten minutes and I look at every street sign, looking for clues. It would be really embarrassing if we were heading in the wrong direction.

“How much further?” says Chloe. “My feet are hurting.”

I grunt with frustration. I’m about to humiliate myself, and she’s got sore feet?

“Not far,” I manage to say. “It’s just around the corner, I think . . .”

But at the next corner the name of the road is Frith Street, and I’m still no clearer as to where we are. I grin unconvincingly and suggest we keep going. Chloe is huffing and puffing and I’m having trouble concealing my irritation.

“Look, we’re nearly there, okay?”

Chloe sighs, then stops after a few steps.

“We’re here! This is Greek Street!” she squeals. “Oh, thank God! Sorry for being a bitch, but you have no idea what it’s like walking in these shoes.”

I gulp. We’re here. We’re actually here, and we’re going in. Once I’ve found the door, of course.

As luck would have it, we’re at the right end of the street, and we’re soon outside the door of Soho House. Chloe clutches my hand in excitement. “God, you’re really sweaty, Natalie. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing!” I trill gaily. “Absolutely nothing!”

“Are you sure? You seem really nervous.”

“Nervous?” I say with a hysterical laugh, “why would I be nervous? Although we could go somewhere else for a quick drink first, if you want? There’s loads of places round here . . .”

Chloe gives me a look and I stop talking quickly. She’s right, I am nervous.

Actually I’m more than nervous—I’m nearly shaking with trepidation. Calm down, I tell myself. I’ve got to walk in, hand over my card, and that’s it. It’s not hard. I just have to look like I do it all the time. Think like Cressida, I tell myself. I am fabulous. I can do this.

Taking a deep breath, I open the door and we walk in.

The woman at reception looks uncertainly at us.

“Can I help you?” she says politely.

“We’re just here for a drink,” explains Chloe, her eyes glittering with excitement.

“I see. Well, this is a members-only club, so I’m afraid . . .”

“Natalie’s a member, aren’t you, Natalie,” says Chloe quickly. I smile thinly at the woman, who peers at me. Bollocks. Now she knows I’m called Natalie, and my card says Cressida. We’re doomed.

“And do you have your card with you?”

“Of course I do,” I say as confidently as I can. “It’s in here somewhere . . .” I halfheartedly fumble around in my bag. This is awful. I don’t feel fabulous. I feel hot and uncomfortable, and I’m convinced that it’s absolutely obvious to the receptionist that I’m not a member. Chloe will never forgive me for making us look so ridiculous, and for lying to her. Why can’t I just be like other people and tell the truth about things? Why do I make things so complicated for myself?

“Come on,” says Chloe impatiently, and raises her eyebrow at the receptionist as if she can’t believe she’s actually making me get the card out. Like she should know who I am. Which of course makes me feel even worse.

And then the door opens and a group of people walk in talking loudly. I look up and recognize a face—I think she was in
Heat
last week, but I can’t remember who she is. Another looks very familiar, but I can’t place him, either. He looks at me quizzically and I look away quickly. He’s probably famous and I don’t want to embarrass myself further. But instead of looking away himself, he walks over to me.

“All right, gorgeous? Fancy bumping into you here!”

I look up in shock to study the face closing in on mine to deposit a kiss on my cheek, and Chloe swings round to stare. And then I remember. Of course, it’s Serge, the white noise–pink noise man. I feel a rush of relief course through me.

“Serge, hi! No, well, we just thought we’d drop by. You know . . .”

“Fantastic stuff,” he says, putting his arm round me, and walking toward the reception desk. This is my chance to get in, I think quickly. I smile at Chloe so that she knows to follow us, and she rolls her eyes at me in wonderment.

Serge leans over the reception desk and gives the stern woman a kiss on the cheek.

“You’re new, aren’t you?” he says easily. “Well, they probably warned you about me. Serge Waterman. I’m afraid I lower the tone desperately!”

He grins and hands over his membership card.

The receptionist appears charmed, and smiles back at him, handing his card back.

“Are these young ladies with you?” she asks him, looking quickly at Chloe and me.

“They are now!” says Serge, grinning wickedly. “Although you’re my number one woman, you know.”

The receptionist giggles as we all walk past, and I feel a huge weight lift off my shoulders. I nearly kiss Serge out of gratitude, but his hand is already moving down toward my ass, so I decide against it.

So this is Soho House! I’m finally in the coolest members club in the world. Unfortunately, I can’t see Madonna anywhere, or Jude Law, for that matter, so instead concentrate on the surroundings. It’s a bit like being in someone’s house—but someone who’s really rich with amazing taste, loads of really cool friends, and lots of staff. I can’t imagine anything like this opening up in Bath. People just wouldn’t know what to do with themselves. And although it’s really cool, I didn’t expect it to be this cozy and comfortable. Like, you can have cocktails, but you could also order Marmite on toast if you wanted—Serge does just that. Or a hot chocolate. There are people watching DVDs like they’re in their own homes. People just sitting around reading the papers like it wasn’t ten o’clock on a Saturday night.

The girl from
Heat
is an actress, it emerges, who is releasing a single on Serge’s record label. And the single is going to be on the soundtrack for a film that another guy with them is producing for DreamWorks.

It’s like a different world—names that I know from magazines pepper the conversation along with the plastic surgery they’ve allegedly had or the person they are supposedly shagging, and it’s all I can do not to gasp every five seconds. Chloe doesn’t even try to hide her gasps and she keeps squealing and squeezing my arm every time someone famous is mentioned.

“So where’s this boyfriend of yours?” Serge asks me under his breath.

I turn round sharply. “He’s not my boyfriend. I mean . . . he is, you know. But I’m just here with Chloe . . .”

It’s coming out all wrong.

“Ah, just a little flingette, is it?” Serge grins. “Lots of money and not much else? Well, a girl’s got to have some fun, hasn’t she?”

“It’s not like that,” I say hotly. “I like him.”

“Great!” says Serge, smiling smoothly. “Makes it easier when you like them, too, doesn’t it?”

I look at him angrily. How dare he try to make out that I’m only with Simon for the money? He doesn’t even know me. Just because he hangs out with flaky, self-obsessed people, it doesn’t mean we all do.

God, I sound just like Simon. Or, worse, like my parents.

Okay, think Cressida, I tell myself again. You’re in Soho House, for God’s sake!

I turn to the actress. “You were in
Heat
last week, weren’t you?” I say with a smile.

She stares at me. “So what?” she says, then turns to the girl next to her and starts laughing. I look around quickly to see if Chloe has seen me being completely humiliated, but luckily she’s busy texting someone on her mobile phone.

Eventually I realize that none of Serge’s “friends,” if you can call them that, are going to talk to us. And Serge himself has only one thing on his mind—his foot keeps brushing against my leg no matter how many times I shift around in my seat. I feel uncomfortable, and I want to go home.

“There’s not much going on here, is there?” I say as quietly as I can to Chloe. “Do you want to go soon?”

“Home? Are you serious?” She looks disappointed.

“Yes,” I say, directing her eyes toward Serge’s hand, which has now taken up residence on my knee.

“Fine,” she agrees with a shrug, and picks up her bag.

“You’re not going, are you?” says Serge, as I remove his hand and stand up.

“ ’Fraid so,” I say with an apologetic smile. The others are engaged in conversation and barely notice us as we leave the group.

“I’ll call you,” Serge calls drunkenly after me as I smile hesitantly at the woman in reception, and walk out into Greek Street.

“You know, I think I should move to London,” says Chloe thoughtfully, stirring her coffee. “I mean, I’m going nowhere back home, am I not? Not like you . . .”

It’s Sunday morning, and we’re sitting at my table having breakfast. I’m quite relieved we had a relatively early night last night—my head’s still pounding a bit from all those cocktails, but I did manage to get a good sleep.

I look at Chloe curiously. “What do you mean? You’ve got everything going for you.”

“Pah,” she snorts. “I’ve got a boring job at Shannon’s and that’s it—I mean, for God’s sake; I’ve been there since I left university. It’s pathetic. Whereas you’re really going places here.”

“I thought you loved your job?” I ask incredulously. Chloe was always the complete golden girl at Shannon’s, always got the really interesting assignments. If only she knew what I was really doing in London. I feel a sham. And last night at Soho House, I actually began to question for the first time whether I should be in London myself.