Little White Lies (21 page)

Except that this isn’t my pillow. It’s much nicer than my pillow. And this isn’t my room, either. It’s got pink wallpaper and huge big windows covered in sweeping curtains rather than the cheap IKEA things I’ve got hanging up in my bedroom.

Gingerly I sit up and look around. It’s dark outside, but there’s enough light seeping through the curtains from the stars to pick out my clothes on a chair next to the bed. And to see that I’m on my own. I must have fainted. God, how embarrassing. I don’t think I’ve ever fainted before.

My heart sinks as I remember Leonora. Although she must have gone by now. But did she see me? Did she tell everyone that I wasn’t Cressida? I bite my lip nervously, then inch off the bed as quietly as I can.

Slowly, very slowly, I put on my clothes. I can hear voices coming from the next-door room, and chairs scraping on a hard floor—I must be in the annex next to the kitchen. I can hear Simon’s voice, and Tilly’s, then Archie’s, and then someone else’s. A woman. Oh, God, it must be Leonora. She’s still here. Why can’t she bugger off back to India and leave me alone?

Okay, time to face the music. I have to go out there and tell them the truth. It’ll be horrible, but it’ll also be a huge relief—like putting down a heavy bag I’ve been carrying around with me. I hate lying to Simon, hate having to avoid certain questions. And if he’s angry, fine—I can take anger. I’ll just keep explaining until he’s okay with it. I’ll prove to him I did it all out of the best of intentions. That I never meant to lie to him.

Oh God, what if he ends up hating me? What if he wants me to go?

I find myself thinking that Simon would never chuck me out at this time of night, whatever the time is, and that this fact could work in my favor—I’ll have more time to turn things around. But then I get angry with myself for being so scheming. Forget Cressida, I seem to be turning into Becky Sharp.

I take a deep breath. We can get through this—Simon loves me and his family are good people; they’ll hear me out; they’ll think I’m a bit ridiculous, but they’ll see the funny side and we’ll talk about it for years to come.

But what if they don’t? What if they never forgive me?

I bite my nails nervously. I love it here—I mean, I’m in love with Simon, but I also love his family, this house, their way of life. In spite of all my protestations that the country is utterly dull, I adore this place and I want to be a part of it. And I can’t bear the thought that when Simon knows what I’m really like—who I really am—he won’t want to see me again. That they’ll cast me out, and I won’t be able to come back.

Still, there’s only one thing for it. It’s time to face the music.

Tentatively, I move over to the door and then I boldly throw it open, ready to face my fate. But instead of opening directly onto the kitchen, the door opens onto a corridor that leads to the kitchen. Feeling my bravery falter a little, I tiptoe down toward the kitchen to try and hear a bit better what they’re saying. To establish whether they’re really angry or are talking about something completely different—you know, like it’s not really that big a deal.

“But, Simon,” I hear Archie say. “. . . not sure . . . right for you . . . so different . . .”

I wonder what they’re talking about.

“. . . think your passion is misplaced.”

Passion misplaced? That sounds interesting. Passion for what?

“It’s just such a bolt from the blue . . . being a bit reckless,” I think I hear Tilly say.

Maybe Simon’s buying a new car?

Whatever it is, Simon is surprisingly quiet on the issue. A couple of seconds later Archie starts talking again. I can’t hear everything he’s saying through the heavy kitchen door, but I can make out a lot of the words.

“. . .worried about you . . .” he says. “. . . wanted more for you . . . won’t provide for you longer term . . .”

Suddenly I get a nasty sick feeling in my stomach. He couldn’t be . . . he isn’t talking about me, is he? I edge closer.

“It’s okay to follow your heart,” Archie continues, “but you do have to think through the practicalities. Make sure your choice is appropriate.”

My heart starts to beat loudly in my chest, and I move back quickly, afraid I’ll be heard.

Archie said something about Simon’s passion being misplaced earlier. Is that what he thinks? Do they think I’m bad news for him?

Well, there’s only one thing for it. I am going to go out there and prove to them that I am right for Simon, that he isn’t being reckless. That it’s all been one big mix-up and that I’m not usually like this . . .

But what am I thinking? I am usually like this. At least I have been like this since moving to London. What have I become? I don’t even know who am I anymore. Maybe they’re right. Maybe Simon’s better off without me. He’s such a wonderful man, and I’ve consistently hidden the truth from him.

I stand by the door for a few more minutes, trying to work out what to do. I can’t stay here, but I can’t go either—not until I’ve said I’m sorry.

Suddenly my thoughts are interrupted by a loud, smart voice. Somehow I know it belongs to Leonora.

“Simon, I just don’t see how you can really lower your living standards to that level,” I hear her say in a loud, indignant voice. “You’ve come so far—do you really want to have to start all over again?”

I frown slightly. Lower his living standards? Is she actually suggesting that going out with me means lowering his living standards? Well, of all the cheek!

I listen intently, waiting for Simon to spring to my defense, to tell her that she’s wrong. But I don’t hear anything. Simon isn’t speaking.

And then it hits me. He must agree with her. He must agree with all of them. If he didn’t, he’d be telling them so—he was perfectly happy arguing the toss with his parents over whether they should redo the bathroom earlier, so it can’t be a sudden shyness I’m not familiar with.

“Say something,” I hiss under my breath, desperately wanting to hear one word, just one word that would suggest that Simon is still on my side. But instead I just hear him sigh and say, “Well, maybe you’re right. I think I’ll sleep on it.”

He’s going to sleep on it? He’s going to sleep on whether I’m good enough for him? Oh God. This is the support I get from the man I’m in love with? Who I thought was in love with me?

I pad silently back to the room I was sleeping in, furiously trying to blink away the tears that are pricking at my eyes. It’s almost laughable—the irony of it, I mean. There I was thinking my London friends were shallow and image-obsessed, when actually they’re pretty nice people. And Simon’s family, the people I thought were just the most wonderful, genuine people ever . . . well, they’re not, are they? I may have told Simon my name was Cressida, but surely I don’t deserve this—to be vilified behind my back for not being good enough for him.

I sit down on the bed to collect my thoughts. I don’t want to see any of them again—can’t bear the humiliation. But I’m in their house, so it isn’t exactly avoidable.

I could wait until they’ve gone to bed and creep out, but what if I time it wrong and they’re still up? Or what if Simon comes to see if I’m awake?

My eyes rest on the window in front of me. I couldn’t . . . could I? I get up and have a closer look. I’m on the ground floor, so there isn’t far to jump, and it would mean that I wouldn’t have to face them . . .

I look around the room. My purse is in my jacket, which is hanging neatly on the back of a chair. My laundry bag isn’t anywhere to be seen, but I can live without my jeans and toothbrush. Living without Simon will take a little bit longer to adjust to, but after what I’ve just heard, I’m sure I’ll manage.

Blinking back my tears, I climb out into the cool night air. I stop momentarily to look through the next window into the warm, cozy kitchen, then steel myself. It’s a mirage, I remind myself. They’re not warm and welcoming really—it’s just a show. And I nearly fell for it.

Then I turn and run as fast as I can to the village station.

  15

I stare at the answer phone light flashing angrily at me. I’m cold and miserable by the time I get home (trains, I discovered, do not run very frequently on Saturday evenings when you’re in the middle of nowhere). And whilst I’m not sure I really want to face my messages now, I’ve got to do it sometime—so why prolong the agony?

Maybe Simon will have left a message that will make everything okay again. Unlikely, I know, but it’s possible, isn’t it? At least he can’t make me feel any worse.

Steeling myself, I hit the button.

“
Beep!
Natalie, it’s Laura. Look, I don’t know if you’ve been to the doctor’s yet, but I do recall you saying you’d call me back. It’s now two
P.M.
, so I expect to hear from you by three
P.M
.”

Did I say I couldn’t feel any worse? Well, I’d like to take that back, if I may. I didn’t call Laura. Great! This is just bloody marvelous. Anyone else want to have a go? Come on, there must be one other thing that can go wrong, surely? I crumple by the side of the phone, waiting for the next message.

“
Beep!
Natalie. Lucy here. Look, just a warning—Laura’s really on the warpath—she’s really pissed off you haven’t called her back. So if you’re there, give her a call if you can? Okay, bye!”

I drop my head down between my shoulders and hug my legs to me tightly. So far, not feeling any better.

“
Beep!
Hello, Stanley here. Can’t remember if I was supposed to be coming round on Sunday or not. I’ll pop by at seven-ish, and if you’re not there, not to worry. Good to get out of the house anyway. I’ll go to the library beforehand. Oh, maybe the library is closed on Sunday. I never can remember. Well, not to worry. I may see you at seven. If not, then Monday. Yes. Right . . .” He sounds slightly confused as he puts the phone down, and I feel a stab of concern.

“
Beep!
Darling, it’s Mum. Just seeing how you are. I saw Chloe the other day, and she seemed very evasive when I asked if she’d heard from you. You aren’t in any trouble, are you? Now, if it’s got anything to do with drugs, you just let Dad and me know, and we’ll come and pick you up. We lived through the sixties, so we know all about it . . .” I hear Dad in the background telling her that she doesn’t know it’s drugs. “I know, Phillip, but it might be. Now, Natalie. Whatever it is, you call us, okay? And your dad sends his love.”

As the message ends, I feel my eyes well up again. If only they knew what trouble I was in. And Chloe was being evasive . . . well, that’s hardly surprising. God, I don’t even have my best friend to talk to anymore.

“
Beep!
Cress . . . um, is that your name? It’s Simon. It’s . . .”

No! No, my machine cannot stop there. It just can’t . . . but few seconds later I hear the tape beginning to unwind. Stupid, stupid, cheap, old-fashioned, crappy answer machine. I stop it and play the tape again, fast-forwarding until I hear Simon’s voice, then I play it again and again, trying to guess what he would have said next.

I manage to fall asleep eventually, but what feels like a few minutes later, my alarm goes off. It’s set for eight-thirty—at which point yesterday I rushed out of bed to get myself ready for my weekend away. Now I can’t seem to move.

My eyes are puffy and swollen, my head aches, and I flinch every time I think about yesterday. I think of my father quoting Winston Churchill, “KBO, Natalie. Keep buggering on,” and manage to swing my legs round to reach the floor, then heave myself out of bed, knocking a whole pile of washing off it as I do so. I stare at it, trying to remember why it should be there, then figure that it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters. I’m tired, but it’s more than that—I feel numb.

Walking to the kitchen, I see the answer phone on the floor next to where I was sitting last night. I calmly put it back next to the telephone and concentrate on making myself a cup of tea.

I’ve got to face Laura today, which isn’t going to be fun. But frankly, I’d rather face her right now than Simon. I don’t really care what she thinks of me. Anyway, it was only one day. People do it all the time. Lucy does, anyway.

But what of Simon? What am I going to do? I so want to call him up, tell him I’m sorry for being such an idiot, sorry for lying. Actually, what I really want is to hear him tell me it’s okay. But he’s hardly going to do that, is he? Not after all that stuff his family said about me.

I thought Leonora was a missionary or something. I thought she was meant to be charitable.

Slowly I get myself ready for the day ahead. At least it’s Sunday. I don’t have to be in till ten-thirty. There’s no rush.

I put bread in the toaster out of habit, even though I am really not hungry. I manage a bite or two, and leave the rest. I feel lifeless and tired, as if a little part of me has died. As if nothing’s ever going to be good again. As if I’ve left the Garden of Eden and I can’t find my way back. But I suppose that’s the point, isn’t it?—there is no way back. Because there is no Garden in the first place. I cringe at the memory of Tilly, Archie, and that bitch Leonora telling Simon that he was being rash and that he shouldn’t lower his standards by going out with me. Although I probably deserved it in a way. If I hadn’t pretended to be Cressida, they’d never have had the chance to scorn me.

I jump in the shower and unenthusiastically wash my hair. I exfoliate, too—it’s not something I generally bother with, but the scrubbing feels good, a ritualistic sloughing away of dead skin. I emerge, raw but clean, and look for something to wear.

But of course my jeans are in Wiltshire. Along with my new top, two pairs of shoes, and my laundry bag. I sigh, but then shrug my shoulders. I don’t suppose it really matters. I mean, who cares what I look like? Not me, that’s for sure. Not today. As I pull on some trousers, I find myself gazing at my Alberta Ferretti dress. It’s so beautiful, even with grass stains on it. I pick it up and smell it, trying to bring back that heady feeling I had when Simon got so turned on by the dress he had to get me home right away.

Then, sadly, I put it in my bag to take out. It needs to be dry-cleaned, I tell myself, though my instinct is to leave it as it is—the only proof I have of me and Simon.

Gradually I tidy up the flat, piling my laundry in a corner, and by ten, I’m ready to leave. It’s a good thing I’m not bothered by my appearance, because according to my sitting room mirror, I look bloody awful.

Julie backs up this judgment when I get to the shop.

“Oh, my God, Natalie, you look terrible! Laura, just take a look at her!”

Laura emerges from behind the till.

“Natalie, I asked you to call me back yesterday,” she says accusingly.

“I know,” I say humbly. “I just . . . I went to the doctor’s, and then I went to sleep. And I didn’t wake up in time to call. I’m sorry.”

I don’t even notice that I’m lying anymore. It’s as if it’s become so much part of me that telling the truth is more difficult than making something up.

“I see.”

With that, Laura walks off, and I’m left to exchange looks with Julie.

“Don’t mind her; she’s just pissed off because she doesn’t think she’s going to get the Stallioni handbags. They’re undecided whether we have the right environment for their customer base apparently.”

“Really? That’s a shame. Giovanni seemed nice.”

“Yeah, well, that’s the other reason Laura’s narked. Apparently your pal Giovanni asked a few questions about you. She reckons that you must have put him off the shop when you were talking to him.”

“Oh, great. Looks like I can’t do anything right.”

Julie looks at me quizzically. “You okay?” she ventures.

“Not really. Bit of a shit day yesterday,” I say with a shrug, desperately hoping Julie won’t ask me about it. I’m managing to keep a lid on my emotions, and if Julie does so much as make sympathetic noises, I’m liable to burst into tears.

“Looks like it,” Julie says, nodding. “Funny, I thought you were faking a sickie after you were trying to get Lucy to swap shifts with you. But you look like you should still be home today. Good thing Lucy didn’t swap, eh? Otherwise you’d be on your nice weekend break looking like that!”

I smile thinly.

“At least I’ll make the clients feel good about themselves,” I say, shrugging.

“Scare them off, more like. You want me to weave some magic with my makeup? I’m very good at coverage, you know.”

I look at Julie dubiously. The thing is, I actually quite like the fact that I look awful. That’s how I feel inside, and it’s quite reassuring to know I look as bad as I feel. But maybe I’m missing a trick here. Maybe covering up my puffy eyes and red, blotched skin, will also make it easier to blot out Simon, to blot out yesterday.

“You really think your makeup is up to the job?”

“Oh, pur-lease. You ever seen me with hangover skin?”

I shake my head. Julie’s skin is always immaculate porcelain.

“Well, then. Come downstairs quickly.” She looks over her shoulder and calls across to Laura.

“We’ll be in the stockroom for a few minutes. Give us a shout if you need anything.”

Obediently, I follow Julie downstairs and sit down while she pulls out her bag and rummages around. Then she yanks back my face, wipes a moist tissue all over it, and gets to work.

“There,” she says in a satisfied tone, about ten minutes later. I turn to look in the long narrow mirror that Julie and Lucy usually use to see how they look in the designer clothes they “borrow” for nights out, and smile. My skin looks clear again; my eyes look like eyes instead of pinpricks on my face. My cheekbones are almost chiseled, and I look as if I’ve never had a bad night’s sleep in my life.

“See?” Julie continues, obviously pleased with herself. “Nothing a bit of slap can’t fix.”

“Julie, you’re amazing. I actually feel better.” And I almost do. Looking at myself looking all pretty and fresh makes me feel like things can’t be so bad, after all. But before I can get too happy, I hear Laura open the stockroom door. I turn round and meet her eyes.

“I don’t know why you’re looking so pleased with yourself.”

I look at Julie, who rolls her eyes at me. “Laura,” she says patiently, “I’m just making sure Natalie doesn’t put our customers off. Don’t you think she looks nice?”

Laura stares at Julie coldly. “I’m sure she looks nice,” she says icily. “I’m sure she looks nice in this dress, too. What I want to know is what the dress is doing in her bag.”

Laura is holding up my Alberta Ferretti dress.

“That’s my dress!” I say indignantly, walking over to take it out of Laura’s clutches. But she holds it away from me and narrows her eyes.

“Your dress?” she asks, smoothly. “And how did you come to own an £800 dress?”

“My boyfriend . . . my . . . Simon. Simon bought it for me,” I say angrily. “Give it back to me.”

Laura moves back. “I see. And now it’s scrunched up in your bag with grass stains on it. How interesting.”

“I was taking it to the dry cleaners, although that’s none of your business,” I say sullenly.

“Oh, but it is my business,” says Laura icily. “You see, this dress is exclusive to Tina T’s in the U.K. So I’m very interested how your boyfriend managed to buy it for you.”

“He bought it here!” I say desperately. “Last week. Didn’t he, Julie?”

Julie nods. “It’s true, Laura. D’you remember the guy in the suit?”

“Of course I remember him,” says Laura, with a glint in her eye. “And he did mention a girlfriend, too. I remember because it was such a pretty name. Cressida.”

Julie looks confused and raises her eyebrow at me.

I am shaking—with rage at Laura for accusing me; with fear that I won’t get my dress back; and with hatred of myself for letting this happen. For letting Laura throw the Cressida thing in my face like that.

“I did not steal that dress,” I say slowly, managing to keep my voice low and calm. “It’s my dress, and I want it back.”

Laura looks at me with a supercilious smile. “Very well,” she says, handing me the dress. “It’s no good for the shop floor in that state, anyway. But I think perhaps you should collect your things, Natalie, don’t you? It’s probably best if you part company with Tina T’s right away.”

It takes a moment for her words to sink in.

“You’re firing me?”

“I think that’s the phrase, yes.”

“Fine. Absolutely fine. Well, screw you, anyway.”

I grab my dress from Laura, race up the stairs, and run out of the shop, just pausing to pick up my bag. I hate Laura. I hate Notting Hill. I hate . . . Actually, more than anything, I hate myself.

I don’t go home right away. Instead, I go to Hyde Park. It’s a hot, August afternoon and the park is full of families, in-line skaters, dogs, and people out exercising with their personal trainers. It’s full of life and peaceful at the same time, and I wander over to lie down next to the duck pond.

It was only five minutes from here that I had my evening picnic with Simon. It seems like weeks ago, but it was just last weekend. I can’t believe how naÏve I was. Thinking that everything would just work out. That I could just pretend to be someone else for the rest of my life. And now I’ve gone and lost everything.