Little White Lies (7 page)

When I was little, my dad and I used to play this game whenever we went to the dentist. There would be loads of copies of
Country Life
lying around and we used to flick to the page where they had a photo of some rich girl who had just got engaged. Dad would cover up the words at the bottom of the photo and we would have to guess what her name was. In retrospect it probably wasn’t the best game in the world, but I used to love it. I also used to imagine people looking at a photo of me and guessing what my name was. So, Cressida Rutherford. Hmm, not bad.

Bugger. I thought the letter was going to be far more interesting than that.

I put it down and get myself another drink of water, then wander back to the sofa, but before I get there I stub my toe. Again. That’s the second time in as many days. It bloody hurts and I hold it tightly, swearing loudly, until it starts to feel better.

What a joke this whole evening has turned out to be. First I embarrass myself at Canvas. Then I finally open the letter, only to find out it’s really boring, and now I’ve stubbed my toe.

I move my toe and gently push the letter off the sofa onto the floor where it belongs. It’s all right for Cressida. I bet she never stubs her toe. And if she did, she could probably just do a bit of Reiki and make it better again. She doesn’t even have to find her own boyfriends—oh, no. Why would she, when she has friends like Leonora to introduce her to eligible young men with huge fortunes?

Thank God I don’t need any help when it comes to getting a date. I mean, there’s no way I’d be asking my friends to set me up with some stranger. And anyway, I’m doing just fine on my own, thank you very much. Well, sort of fine.

I flinch slightly as I consider my recently ended relationship with Pete and this evening’s events. So maybe I’m not doing that well, after all. Oh, fuck it, I’m doing terribly. I suppose I could do with a helping hand, after all. I mean, why should Cressida get all the breaks?

I stare at the letter for a few minutes, trying to stop the room from spinning. Then I have an idea. I could call him, couldn’t I? Me, Natalie Raglan. I mean he doesn’t belong to Cressida, does he? Just because Leonora wrote to Cressida doesn’t mean that no one else is allowed to contact him, does it? No, of course it doesn’t.

I pick up the phone, then put it down again. What am I thinking? I wouldn’t know what to say, anyway. I stand up to see if it makes me feel more decisive. Big mistake—I immediately feel sick again and quickly sit down.

Then, quickly, before I can change my mind again, I dial the number on the letter.

“If you know the extension you require, please dial one.”

Extension? Oh, shit, I’ve got no idea.

“For name identification, please press two.”

Hah! I press two.

“Please dial the first three letters now,” a voice says.

I think for a minute, staring at the letters on my telephone, then press seven for
R,
eight for
U,
and eight for
T.
I wait, nervously. Should I have dialed the first three numbers of his first name instead?

“For Andrew Ruta, please press one. For James Rutger, please press two. For Simon Rutherford, please press three. For . . .”

Yay! I quickly press three and immediately hear a strong, educated voice asking me to leave a message.

I take a deep breath.

“You don’t know me,” I say slowly, trying to sound sober and instead sounding like the talking clock. “But a mutual friend, Leonora Stapleton, suggested I give you a call. I think she thought we might get on. So you could give me a call if you wanted. My number is 020 7221 8790.”

And as I put the phone down, I pass out again.

  4

I wake up very slowly and wrinkle my eyes against the sun that is streaming in through the thin, pointless excuse for curtains that are hanging over my sitting room windows. The sunlight is far too bright for my fragile hungover head, so I clamp my eyes shut again. I’m guessing I fell asleep on the sofa last night.

Last night . . . I start to piece together the evening’s events. I know that I did something stupid, but I can’t remember what.

That’s the trouble with living on your own. There’s no one to tell you what happened the night before. For a second I wish Pete were here so that I could hide my head in his chest and have someone to face the day with. But if I’m honest, he would probably just laugh at me and make me feel even worse than I did before. Distance from Pete has made me realize just how disparate my idea of life with him and the reality were. It’s as if having spent so many years fantasizing about being his girlfriend, I couldn’t let myself believe that it was anything less than perfect. Until he started disappearing for no reason and coming home late from work, smelling of wine with a hint of perfume. Until I realized that I couldn’t make the relationship work all by myself.

No, I’m definitely better off on my own. So, time to face the music—what is it that’s making me feel so uneasy (other than the alcohol still present in my stomach, that is)? I wish I could be the sort of person to not want to know what happened, but I’m not—I have to analyze every detail of every minute. My mother always says that there’s no point worrying about anything you said or did at a party because no one would have noticed; they’d be too busy worrying about what they said and did to notice me. But people do notice what other people do—otherwise why would there be so many gossip magazines on the newsagent’s shelves?

No, better to know the truth, to accept the humiliation, and to work out a diversion strategy/go on holiday/find new friends.

So, there were the drinks, the dancing . . . oh God, it was the unisex loo. I was talking to myself about Alistair and he overheard. I bury my head in a cushion, trying to block out the embarrassment.

There is still something niggling, though. Something else. Of course. It was Lucy and Alistair talking to the bouncer. About me. Alistair will have told everyone and I’ll be a laughingstock. Oh God, the minute I start to actually make some friends, I go and ruin it all.

But still I feel as if something’s missing. Something else mortifying that I can’t quite put my finger on. I go through the evening’s events again . . . the vodka, my utter humiliation in the loo, dancing with Michael, overhearing Alistair and Lucy . . . Oh, yes, and throwing up in front of everyone and having to be taken home. That’ll be the thing I was trying to remember. I physically cringe at the memory.

Trying to ignore the throbbing in my head, I slowly roll over onto my side and swing myself into a sitting position. I manage to get myself into a standing position, and shuffle into the bathroom to survey the damage. Hair standing up at right angles, and smudged black eyeliner making me look like a panda. Definitely taking morning-after chic too far.

Shutting my eyes, I squeeze some facial wash into my palms and rub it vigorously into my face, splashing myself with cold water until I feel vaguely human. I dig around in the bathroom cupboard for some aspirin and then make my way to the kitchen, where I pour myself a large glass of orange juice.

At least I don’t have to go to work today. At least I don’t even need to go outside the front door. No one need see me at all.

Unfortunately, my kitchen cupboards don’t offer much in the way of hangover food—none of the cereal, bacon, and muffins that I used to make Pete when he was feeling fragile. I survey the contents of my fridge: one white loaf of bread, one pint of milk, half a carton of orange juice, slices of ham, one tomato, six eggs. God, I really must remember to do some proper shopping instead of just nipping out to the corner shop every so often. Okay, so scrambled eggs on toast with ham and tomato sounds good. I just can’t quite muster the energy to cook it, that’s all. I think longingly of a Starbucks latte with cranberry cheesecake, but that would involve going outside. And that is simply out of the question.

Instead, I make myself a cup of tea and add an extra spoonful of sugar as a treat. The thing is, I rationalize, as I walk over to the sofa, it isn’t as bad as all that. Not really. So I was sick—well, people do that, don’t they? And if I was talking to myself, I can just laugh it off, can’t I? And if that doesn’t work, well, I can move. I mean, I’ve only got a six-month contract on this flat and I’ve already been here for a month. So I just have to endure the embarrassment for another five months and I can move somewhere else and start again.

Like Australia.

The telephone rings and makes me jump. Why would anyone be calling me at . . . I look at my watch . . . at nine-thirty
A.M.
on Tuesday morning? I look at the phone suspiciously, but it won’t give up so I reluctantly pick up. It’ll probably be someone for Cressida.

“Hello?” My voice is croakier than expected, and I clear my throat noisily.

“Natalie?” The voice is crisp and harsh.

“Mmmmm?”

“Good, you’re in. I need you to come in to work—Lucy is sick and we’re short-staffed. Could you be here in an hour?”

It’s Laura. She must be joking, surely? I’m in no fit state for work. I rack my brains for something to say that will get me out of it.

“Laura, I’d love to, but . . .”

“I’m afraid you don’t have a choice, Natalie. If you want a job at Tina T’s, you have to be flexible.”

Bitch. I bet she wouldn’t try this on Julie.

I take a deep breath. “Fine. Give me enough time to have something to eat, okay?”

So much for staying in all day. I can’t believe Lucy has called in sick. When she must know I’m in no fit condition to work.

I jump in the shower and turn the water on to freezing to shock my body into waking up properly. At least now I’ll be able to buy myself a big coffee and something sweet to eat with it. And for once it’ll be a relief to be alone with Laura—she might be a cow, but at least she doesn’t know about the talking-in-the-loo incident.

I pull on my jeans and boots and pick up my keys. But, just as I’m about to open the front door to leave, someone knocks on it. I freeze. A knock at the door suggests it’s someone who lives here—otherwise they’d be ringing the buzzer. Which means it’s either one of my downstairs neighbors, none of whom I’ve ever actually seen, or it’s Alistair, who is the last person I want to see. I stand as still as I can, hoping that whoever it is will lose interest and go away.

But the knocking starts again and this time it’s accompanied by a voice.

“Natalie? You there?” Damn, it is Alistair. And there’s no way I’m ready to face him.

Okay, I have two options. I can ignore him and hope that he’ll just go away, or I can open the door and face my fear. I can be weak, or I can be strong.

I take a deep breath.

“Alistair? Hi! I’m just . . . in the bath, I’m afraid,” I call out feebly. Okay, so there’s always a third option.

“Oh, right,” says Alistair, sounding a bit embarrassed. “Just wanted to make sure you’re all right.”

My eyes narrow. Does he mean it, or does he just want to laugh at me some more?

“Yeah, I’m feeling great,” I lie.

“Really?” He sounds surprised.

“Yes, actually I’m fine. Absolutely fine.” I say, trying to convince myself as much as anything.

“Look, thanks for bringing me home and everything. I’m not usually such a liability.”

“Anytime,” says Alistair as I tiptoe slowly to the bathroom so that my voice sounds like it’s coming from the right place. Unfortunately my floorboards are really squeaky and they groan loudly as I move.

“Someone in there with you?” he asks.

“Here? No! No, just me. You know, on my own.” I sound like I’m lying. Too many words. I should have just said “No” and left it at that.

“Right you are. Anyway,” Alistair continues, “we’re going to the Market Bar if you want to come. Just for coffee, no vodka, I promise.”

“We?”

“Me and Lucy. She crashed on my floor last night and woke me up far too bloody early, so I figure she owes me breakfast.”

“Oh, right. Great!” So Lucy crashed on Alistair’s floor, did she? And now poor ill Lucy is going to the Market Bar with Alistair while I go to work?

I hear someone else come down the stairs.

“She coming?” I hear Lucy ask Alistair.

“Dunno. She’s in the bath. I think there’s someone in there with her.”

“There is not someone in here with me!” I shout indignantly. “I’m in the bath. Alone.”

“Sounds lovely,” Lucy calls in her singsong voice. “Coming out in a bit?”

“Actually Laura’s asked me to work today,” I say pointedly. “She hasn’t got anyone else in today.”

“You’re joking, aren’t you? Should have called in sick—that’s what I did!”

“I know,” I say crossly.

“Well, maybe we’ll see you later, yeah?”

“Sure,” I reply. Later, after your lovely day with Alistair and my horrible day at work, I think irritably.

“You have a laugh, won’t you?” I call out before I can stop myself. “I mean, you seemed to be having a good laugh last night.”

“You heard us?” says Lucy, laughing. “God, it’s hysterical, isn’t it? We’re going to have fun with that tomorrow at work!”

I can’t believe it, she doesn’t even sound sorry. It’s like it’s perfectly okay to laugh at someone. To their face! Still, they did take me home. I do owe them for that.

“See you later, then. Have fun with your nonexistent friend,” Alistair calls as Lucy trips down the stairs after him.

I slump against the wall. I’m tired, my head hurts, and I’ve got to go to work. My new friends are laughing openly at me, and I’m still fairly certain there’s something I’m forgetting—some other faux pas that will no doubt come back to haunt me. At least today Laura won’t be able to get me down. I’ve done a pretty good job of that myself already.

I spend the first few hours at work cursing myself for not coming up with an excuse when Laura called. I mean, we’re hardly busy, anyway. It’s not as if it’s life or death.

“Natalie? Natalie! Will you come over here a minute?”

I am woken from my reverie by Laura calling me over to help a customer. Sorry, client.
Customer
is apparently a really outdated term and gives the wrong image of the Tina T’s ethos—we are here to work with our clients, not for them. Or something like that—Laura told me all about it when I joined, but I didn’t think I’d be here long enough to have to worry about it. Which reminds me, I must start looking for another job. The question is, what sort?

“Natalie, could you check in the stockroom for one of these Westwood dresses in a size eight? I’m sure we’ve got one somewhere, but I can’t find it on the shop floor.”

I look vaguely at the dress. “Oh, yes, we did have a size eight in that,” I tell Laura before realizing why it looks so familiar. It’s the dress Julie was wearing last night. The one she won’t be bringing back till later today—if she remembers, that is. Oh, shit.

I go down to the stockroom and pretend to rummage around. Then I actually start to look, as if somehow it could be here, after all, hiding amongst the Balenciaga or something. But, of course, I can’t find it—for all I know, Julie could still be wearing it.

After a few minutes, I go back to the shop floor.

“Laura, I can’t find it,” I say apologetically. “I’m sure it must be down there somewhere, but I just don’t know where.”

Laura looks up and her eyes narrow. “If it was down there, I’m sure you’d have found it,” she says in a frosty tone, then turns back to her client with a sickly smile on her face. “I will see if we can order you one in, Deborah. And if not, I think the size ten could be taken in . . .”

I spend the rest of the afternoon hoping that Laura isn’t going to go looking for the dress again—I’d call Julie if I had her number, but as Jason will have discovered, she isn’t in the book.

Thankfully Laura seems to forget about it. But as I pick up my things to go home, she corners me. I hate it when Laura comes too close to me. From a distance she looks almost nice—in a thin, pinched sort of way. But up close you see how caked her face is in makeup, how little flesh she has on her face.

“You do know the dress I was talking about, don’t you?” she says menacingly. “The Westwood.”

“Yes,” I say as evenly as I can. “I did think we had a size eight, but maybe it was sold or something.” I’m sure I don’t sound convincing, and not for the first time today I wish Julie was here. She’d be able to divert Laura easily.

“I’ve checked, and it hasn’t been sold,” she says in a soft voice. “Now, listen to me, Natalie, I know that you girls borrow clothes and think I won’t notice. And I do notice. If I suspect for one minute that you have been lying to me, you will be out of this shop with all damages taken out of your wages. Do we understand each other?”

I stare at her angrily. The worst thing is that in spite of being incensed at her accusation, I actually feel flattered that Laura thinks I could fit into Julie’s dress—or, rather, Tina T’s dress—with that teeny tiny waist.