Little White Lies (5 page)

As I wander up Ledbury Road and along Westbourne Grove, I go through the morning’s events in my head, trying to rationalize my behavior. I didn’t lie to that woman—I just did my job, like Julie said. I mean, we’ve all had shop assistants tell us things look great when they don’t really, haven’t we? God, I’ve had friends say something looks great only to catch my reflection in a mirror (usually when it’s too late to do anything about it) and realize that it was a big mistake. And anyway, the dresses looked fine. I need to just stop taking things so seriously. It’s not like advertising was so squeaky clean, was it? There was this one campaign I was working on for a furniture manufacturer where the whole focus was on quality. It was really nice-looking furniture, too, so I bought one of their tables and it fell apart within a month. And when I told my boss he hardly blinked—he just grinned and said, “Don’t believe everything you read.” Like it was my fault for believing my own advertising slogan.

I take a few deep breaths and walk back toward the shop, catching a glimpse of my reflection in the window. Is it my imagination, or am I actually beginning to look like I belong here? It’s not just the clothes (although I am wearing the uniform of drainpipe jeans, skinny T-shirt, and pointy shoes)—it’s a way of walking; hurried, preoccupied, unapproachable. It’s known as the London defense system—you never know when some nutter is going to accost you in the street. For a second I wonder if I want to become a defensive, neurotic Londoner; then I shrug. Of course I do. Why would I be here otherwise?

I walk back into Tina T’s purposefully, and walk straight over to a customer who’s looking at some Jimmy Choos.

“Aren’t they gorgeous?” I say with a little sigh that I’ve seen Julie use.

That afternoon I sell another £600 worth of clothes, with hardly any help from Julie. That’s a total of £130 commission in my pocket. And I feel great.

At six
P.M.
, Laura comes over. “Natalie, did I actually see you make a sale?” she asks with a mocking smile on her face.

I nod. I suddenly realize who she reminds me of. It’s the witch from
The Wizard of Oz.
Which I guess makes me Dorothy. Or maybe Toto.

“Well, it just shows how good the clothes are this season,” she continues, smiling thinly.

“I think she’s a bloody natural,” says Julie, coming to my defense quickly.

“Really?” says Laura with false surprise. “That is interesting. I wonder if you think this is natural, too?” She holds out one of the Missoni dresses I tagged up this morning. Someone has tried to rip the tag off the dress and it’s left a tear in the fabric.

“You think that was me?!” I ask incredulously. “That’s ridiculous. Someone’s obviously tried to rip it off.”

“Impossible,” says Laura. “I was near them all day today. I warned you about tagging, Natalie. I could fire you for this. If you hadn’t actually sold some clothes today, I would have fired you. As it is, I’m prepared to give you another chance. But you’ll have to pay for the damage.”

My eyes narrow. I want to hurl an insult at her. Or throw a bucket of water over her and watch as she shrinks. But instead I just say “What?” in a strangled voice.

“Come on, Laura, it looks like a shoplifting attempt to me,” says Julie uncertainly, but Laura purses her lips.

“There’s no use trying to defend her,” she says calmly. “And I don’t wish to discuss the matter further. I’m leaving now, so Julie, would you cash up? Rotas for the rest of the week will be up tomorrow morning. Natalie, you’ve got Tuesday and Thursday off. Julie, you’re off on Tuesday and Wednesday, and can you make sure Lucy knows she’s off on Thursday and Sunday again? I expect good sales this week, and won’t suffer any incompetence.”

“Incompetence? You . . . you . . .” Not wanting to say the words that are desperately trying to hurl themselves out of my mouth at Laura, I give up speaking altogether and simply pick up my bag and leave. I’m so pissed off I don’t even say good-bye to Julie. I hate Laura. One day, I think to myself, one day, when I don’t need her stinking bloody job, I am going to wreak my revenge. God knows what I’ll do, but bloody hell, I’m going to do something.

I need to calm down, so I decide to go home via Graham & Green, my favorite shop in the whole world. Some people drink to steady their nerves; others do meditation. I come to this place—it’s like a sanctuary, full of lovely velvet bedspreads, handmade cards, squishy leather sofas, and antique-looking candlesticks. The air always smells of jasmine and there’s a reassuring peace to the place that always soothes my spirits. If anything’s going to make me feel better, this will.

I open the door and hear the familiar jangle of the little bell. Upstairs is full of beautiful furniture and frames, but I head downstairs to the bedroom department, where I ogle the velvet gowns and Egyptian cotton nightdresses. This is what life should be like, I think. Full of lovely things. I wish I worked here instead of bloody Tina T’s. I wish I worked anywhere instead of bloody Tina T’s. Except Shannon’s, of course. I think . . .

The woman behind the cash desk smiles at me. I know that smile. It’s the same smile I dish out to people who come into Tina T’s all the time and obviously don’t have the money to buy anything. But I don’t care—at least it means she won’t ask me if I need any help. Twenty minutes later, purged of my anger I’m ready to go home.

As soon as I get back, I pour myself a glass of wine and run a bath. Then, while it’s running, I rummage through my drawers to find the Found catalog. The Soho House program is with it, and my fingers rest on it for a couple of seconds. Maybe it wouldn’t be so ridiculous to pin it up on my notice board again. I mean, it’s just a program. Is it so wrong to want to appear to have a social life? Before I can change my mind, I quickly pin it up, then take the Found catalog to my bedroom, where I flick through it, imagining myself surrounded by the beautiful things on its pages. After my restoration in Graham & Green, I honestly think that a silk kimono would improve my life immeasurably. As well as some super-expensive bubble bath.

The unopened letter is still on my bedside table, and every so often I stare at it, trying to pretend I don’t care what’s inside.

But I can’t help it—I do care. I know it sounds ridiculous, but I was almost looking forward to coming home this evening because of that damned letter. I’m sure it’s just the anticipation of what might be inside—it’s probably just a boring letter from Cressida’s granny or something. But I can’t help thinking that that letter and the Soho House program somehow link me with a world that I’d never be able to touch normally; if I open it, I might discover the door to a world that includes Nobu, Soho House, and great parties and doesn’t include Laura or Pete or anything else that gets me down. I’m not expecting an Alice-in-Wonderland-style “Eat This” pill or “Drink This” bottle, but it’s like a birthday present—however much you know it’s going to be another set of handkerchiefs, you still can’t wait to open it up, just in case.

I really must just throw it away and be done with it.

Although I did promise I’d hold on to it.

Suddenly I have an idea, and pick the letter up, running my fingers along the thick, creamy paper. Then I take it into the bathroom with me and prop it up next to the taps. The bath is nearly full, and as I lower myself into the hot, steamy water, I glance at the letter furtively. If it gets steamed open by accident, that’s hardly my fault, is it? It could happen to anyone.

An hour later, I’m red and wrinkly. The letter, on the other hand, is still infuriatingly smooth, creamy, and perfectly sealed. Annoyed, I get out of the bath and dry myself, slathering on body lotion.

Body lotion. Now, there’s an idea.

I pick up the letter again, and accidentally-on-purpose smother the back of it with lotion. It’s grease, right? That should open up a letter, shouldn’t it?

The envelope doesn’t budge. Frustrated, I stare at the bottle of lotion as if it were failing me on purpose. There on the front, as if it’s mocking me, is written “Non-greasy, Non-stick.” Bloody stupid lotion—that’s the last time I buy that brand.

Well, sod it. I don’t need to read the stupid letter, anyway. I have much better things to do with my time.

Like . . . I look at my feet. Of course—like, paint my toenails. Purposefully I put on a toweling robe, pick up the letter and some red nail polish, and plonk myself down on the sofa. As I carefully vamp up my feet, I studiously ignore the letter, which is now propped up against the arm of the sofa.

I wonder what I should wear to Canvas. I know Julie will be wearing some stunning Westwood creation, and Lucy is probably the most beautiful person I’ve ever been in the same room as, so I’m going to have to find something pretty spectacular in my (still cluttered) wardrobe. Well, at least I will have pretty toes to show off, so that means sandals.

I stretch out my legs to admire my work, and notice with irritation that there’s a smudge on my big toe. Leaning over to dab at it with a tissue, I knock over the nail varnish and in a flash it starts seeping out all over the sofa. And all over the letter. Shit—I knew I shouldn’t have left it there.

Cursing myself for being so clumsy, I pick up the bottle quickly and try to scoop as much of the polish back in, but in doing so I manage to spread it all over my hands. This is a bloody disaster.

Why am I such a klutz? Grabbing some tissue and nail polish remover from the bathroom, I do what I can to clear up, then stand back to survey the damage. The sofa cushion is only ruined on one side, so I turn it over quickly, then sit back down heavily. My poor toes are now a kind of stained pink—they look raw and injured, not glossy and groomed. And as for the letter, well there’s no way I could give it to the landlord now, with the name and most of the address completely smothered in glossy red gunk.

Although . . . I look at it more closely. Covered in nail varnish, you wouldn’t actually know who the letter was for. I mean, you can’t see the “Cressida Langton” bit at all. It could be for anyone. It could even be for me . . .

My fingers start to scratch away at the polish. Maybe my knocking over the polish was fate’s way of telling me to open the letter. Like it’s my destiny or something.

Except it isn’t, I remind myself firmly. If it’s anyone’s destiny, it’s Cressida’s, and unfortunately she’s missed out. And I am not interested in someone else’s mail, even if it has really nice handwriting on it. I purposefully walk over to the bin and place it firmly inside.

But then I get to wondering whether I’ve made the right decision. By throwing away the letter, am I throwing away an opportunity? All her life my mother has dreamt of being one of the glitterati. From what I’ve read of
Vanity Fair,
Becky Sharp would have opened a letter like that in a shot, and she’s doing all right for herself as far as I can see.

Five minutes later I retrieve it. God, this is agonizing. It’s like having a bar of chocolate in the fridge when you’ve just given it up for a month. And I’ve never been able to give chocolate up for more than a day. Half a day, actually. As soon as I think about giving it up, all I can think about is the delicious sweet taste melting in my mouth.

But that doesn’t mean I’m going to succumb this time.

I put on a CD and walk into the kitchen to pour myself another glass of wine. My hips start to sway slightly as Kylie gets into her stride on my stereo. “I just can’t get you out of my head,” I sing softly along to the music. Then my hips start to sway a bit more and I put my glass of wine down so that I can move my arms around a bit. “Ha na na,” I sing, as I dance around my living room floor. Jesus, I really must get out more.

I wonder what sort of music they play at Canvas. Not Kylie, I’m sure of that. God, I hope it isn’t too obscure and impossible to dance to. I want to let my hair down and have fun, and I’ll never be able to if it’s too cool—I just can’t imagine Julie doing the YMCA routine. Oh, God, I’ll probably make a total fool of myself, and they will all realize I’m not really a city slicker like them—I’m just a country bumpkin who sings “I Will Survive” whenever the karaoke machine gets wheeled out.

I wish I was more confident. Chloe doesn’t give a damn what anyone thinks of her, and I’ve always really admired her for that. But I do care what people think of me. Particularly in London.

Still, at least I’m going out finally. And I can handle a cool Notting Hill club, no problem. My eyes rest on the Soho House program again. I just need to be more like Cressida, I tell myself. Cool and sophisticated.

Feeling much better, I turn up the music and dance my socks off for the rest of the evening.

  3

Monday goes by without any major incidents. Laura decides not to come in, so we’re all a bit more relaxed, although Julie does get me to clear out the stockoom. I guess you need those little protocols that establish the pecking order—back at Shannon’s it was making the tea that determined whether you were junior or “going somewhere”; here it’s clearing out the stockroom. Still, in many ways I’m enjoying the lack of responsibility.

I manage to make a couple of sales, too, though most of my commission is going to go toward that bloody Missoni dress Laura accused me of ruining, and before I know it, Julie’s cashing up.

“So, you coming out?” she asks me. I nod, relieved that she remembers she invited me. You just never know with Julie.

“Great. I’ll call Lucy.”

She picks up the phone and as she dials I can hear her long red talons tapping. “Lucy? Yeah, it’s me. We’re just finishing off here, so d’you wanna come over and get your glad rags on?”

She puts the phone down and looks at me. “So what do you fancy wearing tonight? A bit of Prada? Maybe a cheeky Moschino number? Anything but Westwood—I’m wearing that dress and I’m not having anyone steal my limelight!”

“Are you serious? Laura would skin me alive!” I say, unenthusiastically.

“Oh, forget about Laura,” Julie says dismissively. “She’s just a sad, bitter woman. Find yourself something nice and come out and get pissed. So long as you get to the dry cleaners by Tuesday afternoon, Laura’ll never twig. Come on—she bloody well owes us.”

I look around the shop. Since I started working here, I’ve spent loads of boring hours looking at all the amazing clothes in the shop and imagining what they’d look like on me. But they seem to belong to another world—a world of City bonuses where £400 for a pair of trousers seems normal.

As Julie cashes up, I wander round the shop pulling out dresses and skirts and staring at them in a new light. I wonder what I’d look like in these Chloe trousers? Or in this Alberta Ferretti dress? I bet if I’d been wearing this when I saw Alistair on the stairs last time, he’d have invited me to his party! I grab a handful of clothes and take them to the dressing room, then try each piece on slowly, preening in front of the mirror. The trouble is they’re all so beautiful there’s no way I can choose between them. The Alberta Ferretti dress is out of this world—but far too delicate for a night out in a bar. The Chloe trousers are sublime, the Gucci skirt squeezes my bottom into half its usual size, and I also try on an amazing backless Dolce and Gabbana dress that I’m sure I’ve seen Carrie wearing in
Sex and the City
—it has a built-in bra that shows, like you can’t be bothered to buy a backless bra to go with the dress or something. It doesn’t even look like me in the mirror—it looks like some cool woman who goes out dancing every night.

But I’m just not sure I can do it. I mean, I know it would only be borrowing, but it still doesn’t feel right. I’d be nervous all night in case something happened to it. Julie and Lucy may do it all the time, but I’m not sure I can. Maybe I’m not quite Natalie from Ladbroke Grove yet.

“What’s wrong? Couldn’t you find anything?” Julie asks as I walk back onto the shop floor, in my jeans, black T-shirt, and high heels. “Look, I’ll find you something, if you want. Something super-sexy!”

“Actually, I think I’m okay like this,” I say, trying to sound as nonchalant as I can. I’m guessing that Julie doesn’t think I look “super-sexy” like this.

She looks at me strangely, and for a moment I think she’s going to go into bossy mode and force me to wear something else, but luckily there’s a loud knocking on the door before she can say anything. It’s Lucy. Lucy used to be a university student and work here as a Saturday girl, but she ended up spending so much money on clothes that she had to go full-time to pay off all her debts. So now tries to do both and is always trying to get on stockroom duty so she can catch up on essays and stuff. The thing is, clothes look so good on her I can completely understand why she spends so much money on them—she looks like Helena Christensen or something with these amazingly long legs and skin that always looks like she’s just got back from holiday. Julie says she uses fake tan, but I’ve never managed to look like that even with the help of some St. Tropez.

“Hiya,” she trills as Julie unlocks the door for her. “Give me five minutes; I know exactly what I’m wearing.”

Julie walks over to the shop stereo and puts on some loud hip-hop. She disappears into the stockroom with Lucy and emerges a few minutes later looking utterly amazing in the Vivienne Westwood dress that makes her waist look almost nonexistent. I look down at my own outfit and wonder if I made the right decision. But the truth is I could never look like Julie, anyway—or Lucy for that matter. I mean, I scrub up okay, don’t get me wrong—back home I’m even considered pretty attractive. But the stakes are higher down here. Unfortunately I’m not size six and I don’t look like I’ve just walked off a film set.

“At least let me put some makeup on you,” says Julie, tut-tutting, and I acquiesce. She pulls out a bag and is soon rubbing creams into my face. When I look in the mirror my eyes have doubled in size and my lips have formed a bright red pout. I grin. I wish Chloe could see me now. And Pete, too.

Ten minutes later Lucy emerges from the stockroom in a cloud of perfume and powder.

“I like your jeans,” she says generously, then links arms with me.

“Ready girls?” she asks.

Julie winks at me. “Ready!”

There are no queues outside Canvas when we get there, but there’s still a bouncer at the top of the stairs looking a bit bored. He winks at Julie and Lucy as we walk in, then looks me up and down slowly. I immediately feel my paranoia surfacing—is he going to turn me away? What will Julie and Lucy think? But he quickly looks past me—which I assume means that I should go in. Trying to contain my excitement, I follow after Lucy.

“Just smile at the nice man,” she says with a laugh, winking at the doorman. “He’s useful to know.”

Downstairs, the bar is smaller than I imagined. There are a few benches covered with cushions, a small dance floor, and a long bar. In the corner, a DJ is playing cool ambient music.

Julie walks straight over to the bar.

“What’ll it be, gorgeous?” asks the barman.

“Three vodka tonics please,” says Julie tartly, then turns to whisper in my ear. “I slept with this prick last week, can you believe it? Never bloody called, of course. I don’t think I’m going to be coming back to the bar tonight if that’s all right with you.”

She walks off toward one of the benches and Lucy follows her.

“Leaving you to pay, are they?” says the barman, grinning. “I’m Jason, by the way. Tell you what, you can have these on the house if you can convince your friend Julie to give me her phone number.”

“But I thought you had it?” As I speak, I wonder if I’m betraying a confidence, admitting that I know he hasn’t called. Nice one, Natalie, I chastise myself.

But I’m okay. “I have an instruction to call her, but not the number,” Jason explains, pouring bottles of tonic into three glasses. “She likes to play games.”

I nod nervously as if I understand. God, I haven’t got a chance of getting a date, let alone a boyfriend, if I have to follow rules like that. Back home, you give people your number and either they call . . . or they don’t.

I thank Jason and promise I’ll do what I can on the number front; then clutching the glasses, I make my way over to Julie and Lucy.

“Thanks, Natalie, you’re a mate. Now, how much do we owe you?”

“A phone number. Yours, actually—for Jason. He said he’d love to have it.”

Julie’s face twists into a smile. “Hmmm. I bet he would.”

Lucy moves up to make room for me and I sit down. Already the place is filling up. There’s a girl wearing the shortest skirt I’ve ever seen, with cutoff hot-pink tights and some blue glitter sandals, and another with bright pink hair and a boiler suit open to below the waist revealing a taut stomach and orange bra. I wonder what Pete would make of it, then kick myself for even thinking about him.

“So what about you and men?” asks Lucy. “Got anyone on the go?”

“Well,” I start uncertainly, remembering the stack of lies I told Chloe, “I’ve just split up with someone actually . . .”

“Good for you,” says Julie. “Bloody nightmare, men, aren’t they?” Her eyes wander over to the bar.

“I rather like them myself,” says Lucy playfully. Then she drains her glass. “Right, time for another,” she says. “Same again?”

Julie and I nod, and Lucy walks up to the bar. Jason appears at our table and quickly sits down next to Julie. “All right, lover girl?”

Julie turns round and stares at him. “Don’t you ’lover girl’ me, you user and abuser. No fucking flowers, no dinner date . . . if you think I’m ever sleeping with you again, you’re barking up the wrong fucking tree, mate.”

Her tone is angry, but her eyes are smiling, and Jason leans over to give her a kiss on the mouth. “Right you are, gorgeous,” he grins, and saunters back toward the bar.

“He seems nice,” I venture. “Are you going to give him your number?”

“Dunno,” says Julie. “But I definitely think I’m going to take him home tonight. Nice ass, don’t you think?”

Lucy arrives with the drinks. “Alistair and Michael are here,” she says, plonking the vodka and tonics in front of us. “They’re going on to Woody’s in a bit, so I said we might join them. Thought doubles might get us in the mood . . .”

“Alistair?” I say interestedly.

“Yeah, you know him?”

“Um, not really—if he’s the Alistair I’m thinking of. There’s an Alistair who lives upstairs from me, that’s all.”

“Dark hair, glasses, always wears the same bloody denim jacket?”

“Bingo,” I say, and grin. Ever since I told Chloe that I was going out with Alistair, it’s begun to strike me as rather a good idea. If you think about it, he’s perfect. He’s cool, very good-looking, and completely different from anyone else I’ve ever been out with. I would get a great deal of pleasure out of turning up in Bath with Alistair on my arm, seeing Pete’s reaction . . .

“Well, he’s coming over in a sec, so you can introduce yourself properly,” says Lucy. “Jules, did I just see Jason kiss you? Cheeky git.”

I excuse myself to go to the loo. If Alistair is coming over, this could be my big chance. I nip to the bar and ask Jason where the ladies’ is. He points to a door to the side, and I walk in, heading straight for the mirror.

My hair looks all wrong, so I try to fluff it up a bit, but it ends up looking ten times worse, so I have to desperately try to flatten it down again. I wish I could make up my mind what to do with my hair—I just can’t decide whether I want a short elfin cut or a long sleek ponytail. So I cut it short, then grow it, then cut it short again, and seem to be constantly in that in-between, growing-out phase that means it never looks any good. But right now it’ll just have to do.

“Okay, Natalie, you know what to do,” I mutter to myself. “Just relax. And laugh at his jokes.”

Sometimes I like talking to myself out loud—you know, to make sure that I really listen.

“He may be cool, but he’s actually just the boy next door, but that’s all,” I continue. “And anyway, you look fab!”

I don’t feel that fab. Suddenly my black T-shirt makes me look like an indie kid from the 1990s. Why didn’t I wear something more glamorous? Why didn’t I borrow something from Tina T’s when I had the chance?

I splash some cold water on the back of my neck and practice laughing into the mirror. Shit—I look like a horse when I laugh like that. Right, head down, hand in front of your mouth . . . yes, that’s much better.

But I’m not quite ready to go out yet. For some reason, I’ve got butterflies in my stomach. I guess I haven’t been single for a few years now, and it is a bit scary going out to flirt with a virtual stranger. I take a deep breath and I tell myself I’ll be fine. After all, people do this all the time. I bet Cressida wouldn’t hide in the loo all night trying to pluck up the courage to go back out. And what’s she got that I haven’t got—you know, apart from the money, the Soho House membership, and the millions of people who continually ring her up and write to her? Nothing, that’s what.

Michael Jackson starts playing out of the loud speakers, and I find myself shimmying around a bit, wiggling my hips to the music. If they’re playing “Can’t Stop (Till You Get Enough),” then this must be an okay place. I think it’s a good omen—tonight is going to be my night.

“Whoo, yeah,” I whoop to the music, and do a quick spin, finished off with a winning smile into the mirror. I’m ready to go. “Think sassy,” I say under my breath. “Think sexy. Think . . .”

I’m interrupted by the sound of someone coming up behind me. Which is strange, because no one has come in since I’ve been here, so where have they come from? I look in the mirror to see who it is and freeze. Oh. My. God. It’s Alistair. He’s in here. He’s in here with me, and he must have heard me . . .

I try to smile casually, but it’s no good. My whole face is cringing and bright red.

“I, er, I thought this was the ladies’!” I manage to say in a strangled voice.