Little White Lies (3 page)

As I speak, my hands are irresistibly drawn toward the letters again and I pick them up, fanning myself with them, completing the picture. It wouldn’t hurt to just have a little sneaky peek, would it? I mean, no one will ever know, will they? I’m sure Cressida’s never going to come back and claim them, so having a little look won’t make any difference at all. Except that she might come back, mightn’t she . . . and then what would I do? It wouldn’t exactly look good to hand them over already opened, would it? Damn, and they look so irresistible, too.

Almost reflexively, I pull my hand away as if the tips of my fingers have been singed.

“Natalie Raglan, what on earth do you think you’re doing?” I say to myself under my breath, pulling myself out of this “Cressida Langton” reverie.

That was close. I smile at my reflection as I hear “Tempted by the fruit of another” coming out of my stereo. I’m not sure this is what Squeeze meant when they wrote the song, but the words are pretty apt. I will resist my temptation. These letters are someone else’s private correspondence, and I am not the sort of person to open them. Period.

I flick on the television, but before I can start seriously channel-hopping, the phone rings again.

“Rescued!” I cry, reaching for the phone.

“Natalie?” asks a familiar voice. “You sound a bit out of breath.”

“Chloe! Yeah, well, I just ran across the flat. Or, rather, dived across the sofa.”

Chloe and I have lived next door to each other since we were about five, and until I came to London, we did pretty much everything together. My brother, James, died when I was six, and my parents took a long while to get over it, so I used to be round at Chloe’s house more than I was at mine for a couple of years. We were inseparable—we went everywhere together, read the same books, saw the same films . . . God, we even had our first kiss on the same night. Not kissing each other, obviously, but kissing boys. It was with John and Steve from school and we were both fourteen. We even insisted on standing about ten feet from each other in case anything went wrong, and then we ended up giggling so much John and Steve got completely paranoid and walked off as if we were a pair of demented morons. I was quite relieved actually—John was a really crap kisser and even back then I was worried Pete would find out. Not that it would have mattered in any significant way—it’s not like Pete ever asked me out at that stage, but at the time I had this idea I was saving myself for him.

Anyway, since then Chloe and I have done pretty much everything together—college, university, even work; we joined Shannon’s agency in Bath on the same day. I took a scattergun approach to getting a job after university—I didn’t know what I wanted to do, so I applied for pretty much everything, while Chloe was quite prepared to slum it for a while and try to figure out what she wanted to do with her life. But I persuaded her to send in a CV with mine to a few companies, and we both got a job at Shannon’s, an adverising agency. In the event, Chloe turned out to be a natural, whereas I never really felt in my heart of hearts that it was what I wanted to do. But if I hadn’t decided to quit and move down to London, we’d still be working side by side.

To be honest, though, since I’ve been in London I’ve actually been avoiding Chloe’s calls. It’s not that I don’t want to talk to her—of course I do—it’s just that I wanted to leave it until I had more to tell her. She’s my best friend, after all. The last thing I want is for her to think I’m sitting on my ass every night. I want to impress her with fantastic stories of my wonderful social whirl—my glamour-filled days and hedonistic nights. And also, I can’t tell her the truth because she’d end up telling my mum. And I can’t bear the idea of Mum’s dreams of moving to London going pear-shaped for the second time in her life.

“I’m so pleased you’re finally in!” says Chloe in her familiar cheerful tones. “So tell me, how’s it all going? Are you happy in London?”

I pause. I want to tell Chloe about being a bit lonely, a bit scared that I’ve jumped in at the deep end and can’t quite remember how to swim. Chloe’s always been the one I tell my problems to (believe me, there have been a lot of them). We always used to love spending Saturday night watching old movies and discussing our (usually disastrous) love lives, and I know she’ll be expecting me to confide in her as usual.

But somehow I can’t do it, so I mumble something and ask her how she is instead.

As Chloe tells me about her week, I think about how surprised she was when I actually went through with my promise to move to London. Actually, I surprised myself, too. I only said it for effect one night when Pete got back at midnight with no explanation as to where he’d been. So I told him I was sick and tired of it, and that I was leaving him and moving to London. And when he told me to stop being ridiculous, I dug my heels in and refused to admit that I hadn’t really been planning to move—not in any serious way. And then when my mother heard . . . well, she was so excited, I couldn’t tell her that I wasn’t sure I’d really meant it. Still, it’s done now—I just wish I had a few good stories to tell Chloe.

My eyes are drawn to the letters again. I suppose I could always tell a few white lies, couldn’t I? You know, just spice things up a bit. I mean it’s not like Chloe’s here or anything. She’ll never know.

I look away. God, Natalie, I chastise myself. You’re actually thinking about hiding the truth from your best friend? Just because you don’t want everyone to think you’re a failure?

“Natalie? Are you okay?” Chloe whispers into the phone. I haven’t said anything for several minutes, which is not like me at all—we usually both talk so much that it can be a struggle to get a word in. “Look, if things aren’t working out, you can tell me, you know. There’s no shame in admitting you were wrong . . .”

I feel myself redden. Admit I was wrong? I don’t think so. It would mean disappointing Mum and having Pete crow over me, and frankly there’s no way I can admit I’m alone for the fourth Saturday in a row. And anyway, doesn’t Chloe realize where I am? I’m in Notting Hill. I live at 127 Ladbroke Grove. Of course things are working out.

My eyes rest back on the letters.

“Am I okay?” I hear myself say in a slightly strangled voice. “God, I couldn’t be better!”

Squirming at what I’ve just said, I feel myself getting hot.

“Really? It’s just that your mum said you sounded a bit down when she called—that maybe you were finding it harder than you expected. I mean it’s a huge place, London . . .”

Mum? Oh, God, was it that obvious? I thought I’d done a great job of telling her it was just like she thought it would be when she called the other night. Evidently I need to work on sounding more convincing. And what better time to practice than the present?

I take a deep breath. “Huge and fabulous!” I say to Chloe, trying to smile as I talk. “Actually, you’re lucky to catch me in at this time. I was just heading out for the evening.”

I cringe as I talk, but try to convince myself everything’s okay. I feel kind of empty inside as I talk, but I guess that doesn’t really matter.

“Oh, I’m so pleased,” says Chloe, sounding relieved, and I get a pang of guilt. She actually cares, and I’m making up ridiculous stories about having a great social life. “So where are you going?” she asks.

“Going?” I desperately try to think of somewhere. And then it comes to me. Or rather, the left-hand corner of one of Cressida’s letters draws my eyes over.

“Oh, Soho House, actually,” I say before I can stop myself, then wince. I can’t believe I said that.

“You’re not!” exclaims Chloe. “God, Natalie—that’s the hottest club in London. Who are you going with?”

Who am I going with? Shit—who on earth could I be going to bloody Soho House with?

“With . . .” I start to say, then pause. This is ridiculous. I’ve got to tell Chloe the truth. Just say it:
I’m not really going. I made it up.
But I know I can’t do that.

“Some . . . people?” I say hesitantly.

“Just some people? God, I wish I knew people who go to Soho House. So what’s it like—in London, I mean?”

What’s it like? How should I know? I want to say. I’ve been in pretty much every night since I got here. The view from my window is wonderful, and on my way to and from work I walk right through Portobello market, with all its great bars and restaurants, but I haven’t been into a single one.

But I don’t tell her that. Instead I take a deep breath, cross my fingers, and tell her about all the cool bars on Portobello Road that I’ve passed and longed to go into, using my imagination when it comes to what the insides are like; about all the great clothes stalls at the market where you can buy vintage shoes and cool T-shirts for £5; about the Spanish area at the top of Portobello, just where it joins Golborne Road, where you can get the best olive oil and custard tarts in the world.

“Then there’s Tom’s, the deli/café, which is the best place for breakfast, and Beach Blanket Babylon, which does the best cocktails ever,” I enthuse, not mentioning that I gleaned this information from
Heat
magazine rather than personal experience. As I speak, I think to myself that this is what London should be like. What London probably is like for people like Cressida. What I hope London will eventually turn out to be like for me.

“It’s great,” I conclude at the end of my description of this great mythical-for-me City where anything can happen, and where nothing has yet happened to me. “Really great.”

“It sounds amazing,” sighs Chloe. “I’m so pleased. Pete was saying just the other day that he thinks you’ll be back in a month, so it just shows how little he knows. And now you’re going to Soho House! Everyone’s going to be so impressed.”

Pete said that? God, the arrogance of that man. Well, I’ll show him. I’m going to make a success of things down here. In spite of the guilt that is flooding my veins, I feel a little rush of excitement at the thought of everyone back home thinking I’m having a great time. I know I’ve told some white lies. Maybe some not-so-white ones. But at least now everyone’s going to think my life is fabulous. That’s some consolation for the fact that the reality is rather different. Anyway, why shouldn’t I be going to Soho House? Cressida did, and she lived in the same flat as me. Anything’s possible.

“So,” I say, changing the subject before I get too carried away. “What about you, what are you up to tonight?”

“Well, everyone’s at The George, so I’ll probably go there for last orders. And Rebecca Williams is having a party, so we’ll probably end up there later.”

“Great—sounds really good,” I manage to say, trying to sound enthusiastic. Rebecca Williams is one of those teeny tiny passive-aggressive types with perfect hair and nails, and she’s always been a prime suspect where Pete’s late nights were concerned.

“And what about the shop?” Chloe asks, and I start slightly.

“Shop?” I haven’t told anyone back home that I’m working in a shop. I mean, I used to work in advertising. I was in line for a promotion. I’m hardly going to admit that I’m the one who has to fold and refold jumpers now, even if I do work in one of the most glamorous shops in Notting Hill. So I sort of fudged it, and told everyone back home that I was doing a similar sort of thing to the job I had before, and left it at that. I mean, I’m working in fashion, aren’t I? And I used to have some fashion clients at Shannon’s. So it’s sort of the same thing. Isn’t it?

“You know, your own little shop? Don’t tell me—you’ve changed your mind. I guess it wouldn’t be the first time . . .” Chloe’s giggling. I suddenly remember the drunken evening we spent together the day before I came down to London. I admitted to her that my real ambition in life was to have my own little shop full of beautiful things. Actually, when I told her about it, I was thinking about a shop with nice soaps and maybe a few clothes in it, but having looked at Cressida’s Found catalog, I’ve rather upped my expectations.

“No, I haven’t changed my mind,” I say indignantly. Chloe always teases me about never being able to make my mind up. And it’s really not true. Not about the big things, anyway. At least, not always.

“So you’re going to do it?” Chloe asks interestedly.

“Yeah right. Like I’m just going to open my own little shop. Somehow I don’t think it’s going to be that easy,” I say with a sigh. “I think it should probably be classed as ’dream’ rather than ’ambition,’ if you know what I mean. You haven’t told anyone, have you?”

“ ’Course not,” says Chloe. “I mean, I said my ambition was to be a catwalk model, so I’m hardly one to talk, am I? So, with all your glamorous antics in London is there any news on the romantic front?”

I pause. I mean, the obvious answer is no. No, I haven’t. So why am I thinking this and not saying it out loud? Why is the thought of Chloe going to Pete’s party and telling everyone I’m still single so difficult for me to handle?

“Natalie?” Chloe asks curiously when I fail to speak for a few seconds. “You have, haven’t you? Oh, my God, you’ve got a boyfriend!”

She sounds so excited. Would it really be so wrong to let her think that I’m going out with someone?

Bloody hell, what’s happening to me? Of course it would be wrong. And also incredibly sad. I stopped making up boyfriends when I was fifteen, and Chloe never believed in any of them, anyway.