Little White Lies (27 page)

‘But Papa’s dark. Not
black
, but he’s not my colour, either.’ She spoke of him in the present tense.

‘It’s true. Sylvan’s dark.’ Aunt Liberline pulled the corners of her mouth down. ‘Some say that’s where the trouble began.’

Annick shook her head. ‘What trouble? What are you talking about?’ She could feel tears starting to well up behind her eyes. ‘I don’t understand. What difference does it make who married whom, who’s darker than whom . . . why does any of it matter?’

‘Don’t be so naive,’ Aunt Libertine said sharply. ‘It was a mistake to set ourselves so far apart. Pride, pride. A terrible thing. We all – Betancourts, Olympios, Ribeiros, all – we thought ourselves
better
. Different.’ She paused. ‘But your father . . . it was more complicated for Sylvan. The bloodline wasn’t straight, you see. Your great-grandfather, Sylvanus, wasn’t a Betancourt. He was adopted. Your great-grandmother took him in, though I’m not sure anyone spoke of adoption in those days. She couldn’t keep her own children alive, that was the problem. One by one . . . they all died. And
your
great-grandfather desperately needed an heir. So they found this child – his mother was one of the maids in the house. He was a little lighter-skinned, you see. It wasn’t clear who the father was, and the mother didn’t want to say. In the end, your great-grandmother just took him in, raised him as her own. He was
your
great-grandfather, Annick, my grandfather. And then when
he
married, he didn’t choose one of us, from one of the families. He took a native wife. An African woman. Dark-skinned.
That’s
why Sylvan is so dark.’

‘But why . . . why aren’t
you
dark, like Papa?’ Annick asked, struggling to keep up with the complicated, convoluted web of family alliances about which she knew next-to-nothing. Neither her father nor her mother had ever said much about the past. To be fair, she hadn’t asked either. Her grandfather had been president; there was a stepmother lurking somewhere in the background whom her father disliked . . . that was all she knew.

Aunt Libertine looked away. ‘These Betancourt men,’ she said after a moment. ‘It’s hard to say who’s really who. Who fathered which child? There were twenty-four of us in the end. Some dark, some light, some favoured, some not. In the end it was good for Sylvan . . . that he came out that way, that he was so dark. It made it easier . . . politically. For some of us, it was clear after independence that Togo was no place for us. We were a liability, you see. A reminder of the old colonial order. That’s why some of us came here to France. But where else should we go?’ she asked, a touch defiantly. ‘Brazil? Portugal? We don’t even speak Portuguese any more!’

‘But what does any of this have to do with Papa? It’s all ancient history,’ Annick burst out.

‘Nothing in Africa is ancient history,’ Aunt Libertine said crisply. ‘Nothing. And the sooner you realise that the better.’ She got up heavily. ‘You’ll have to excuse me,’ she said. ‘I’m a little tired.’ She pulled her cardigan around her shoulders, picked up her walking stick and slowly left the room.

Annick sat where she was, immobile, the only sound in the room her own breath, rising and falling, and outside, distantly, the sound of traffic on the street below. At some point in the afternoon she’d got up to make them a pot of tea, which they’d both left untouched. It stood now, gone cold, on the table in front of them. Her legs were stiff and her shoulders ached. She’d been hunched over, almost from the moment her aunt began talking until the last words died away.

She got up awkwardly, levering herself off the floor. She tried to picture her father, but failed. When had she last seen him? A year ago? She could recall certain things – his size, his bulk, his splendid white army uniform and the sound of his voice down the telephone line . . . but it was all fragmented; nothing was whole. Even her mother. What did she
know?
Her scent - Chanel No. 5; the flash of silky blonde hair when she’d just come out of the salon, hair that Annick had longed for all her life; blood-red toenails and the ruby-and-emerald ring that sat on the third finger of her right hand . . . details, fragments, disjointed bits but never the whole.

The urge to vomit came upon her suddenly, with no prior warning. She ran down the corridor to the bathroom, pushed open the door to the toilet and dropped to her knees. She crawled to the bowl as her stomach turned in convulsions, expelling everything that she’d been trying so desperately to swallow. Up it all came: all the pain and the terror, the awful imaginings of what the last few seconds of their lives must have been like, the anguish. She lay her head against the cold white porcelain, tears and slime and spittle streaming from her eyes, mouth and nose, unable to do anything other than gasp for breath.

TASH
London, UK

The fork was halfway to her mouth when she first heard the word ‘Togo’, followed rapidly by ‘assassinated’. It clattered to the ground without her even realising she’d dropped it. She stared at the TV screen in disbelief, but the short bulletin was over. ‘In other news today . . .’ She remained frozen to her seat. Where . . . what . . . how? She put aside her bowl of pasta and stood up, feeling suddenly dizzy. The president of Togo and his wife . . .
assassinated
? She rushed to the hallway, yanked her handbag off one of the hooks and scrambled in her bag for her mobile. Annick. She had to call Annick. She dialled the still-familiar number with shaking fingers. It hit her then, hard. Back then, five years ago, when they’d last spoken to each other on a daily basis, there were no mobiles – or if there were, neither she nor Annick had one. But she still remembered Annick’s number. With her free hand she switched channels, desperately seeking more details. The line was dead. She rang it again, her heart thudding inside her chest. There was nothing further. She put down her mobile and ran to her desk. It took her two seconds to bring up Google and type in the words ‘Togo’ and ‘president’ . . . and suddenly, there it was.
Togolese President and Wife Assassinated
.
BBC – 2 hours ago
. She clicked furiously, sweat breaking out all the way down her back. Her mouth opened in horror. ‘No, God, no . . .’ The details unfolded on the screen in front of her.
Two gunshot wounds, one to the head, the other to the chest . . . his wife, the French actress and movie star Anouschka Malaquais, died of injuries sustained as the result of a grenade thrown into the car as it passed. Two bodyguards were also killed
. She closed her eyes. Annick. She had to reach Annick. The news was already a week old . . . where the hell was Annick?

The flat was exactly as she remembered it.
Bishop’s Court
. She pressed the buzzer for number sixteen and stood back, her heart thumping. The entire second floor – Annick’s flat and the smaller flat that Mrs Price occupied across the corridor – was shrouded in darkness. Tash bit her lip. She pressed the buzzer again. There was no answer, just an eerie silence. She pressed it a third time. A sound close by suddenly made her jump and turn. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a man take a step backwards, slipping back behind the building. She held her breath, waiting for him to emerge. A minute passed, then another, but he didn’t reappear. It was probably nothing, she told herself sternly. Bayswater was a busy area. Even now, at eight thirty in the evening, there were people walking up and down in twos and threes . . . probably just someone who’d changed his mind. She turned and walked back towards Marble Arch. There was only one thing for it. She had to phone Rebecca.

If Rebecca was surprised to hear Tash’s voice, she hid it well. There was only the slightest hesitation, the faintest intake of breath, then the warm, slightly throaty voice that Tash remembered so well came rushing down the line.

‘Tash? Tash?’

‘Rebs, it’s me. Yes, it’s me.’ Tash wasn’t prepared for the way her throat thickened painfully. She swallowed hard.

‘Where are you?’

‘I’m here . . . I’m in London, I mean. I’m standing outside Annick’s place . . . have you heard?’

‘Heard what?’

‘The news. It’s her parents . . . her father,’ Tash swallowed hard again. She cleared her throat. ‘He’s . . . there’s been a coup . . . in Togo. Her parents were killed—’

‘Wh-what? What’re you talking about?’

‘I heard it on the news earlier this evening. It was just a two-second announcement so I Googled it . . . it happened a week ago, apparently. Some junior army officers. I rang Annick straight away but there was no answer and I don’t have her mobile number so I jumped in a cab and came down to the flat—’

‘I’m coming with you. I’ll be right there—’

‘No, that’s the thing . . . there’s no one there. I’ve been standing outside the flat for the past half hour but it’s completely dark.’

‘Where’s Mrs Price?’

‘I’ve no idea. I don’t even know if she still lives there. The phone’s been cut off.’

‘Oh, God . . . her mother too?’ Rebs sounded even more distraught than she was. ‘Why didn’t I hear about it?’

‘I don’t know. It was only at the tail end of the news this evening. I didn’t see it in the papers, nothing. I don’t even know if she was there.’ She hesitated. ‘When . . . when did you last see her?’

‘About . . . maybe three years ago? I tried, you know, after . . . well, for a while afterwards but she didn’t really want to meet up anymore. What are we going to do? D’you know where she works?’

‘No. I haven’t seen her since that night. Jesus, Rebs . . . I . . . I don’t know what to do.’

‘Where are you?’

‘Marble Arch. Just outside the McDonald’s.’

‘Stay there. I’m coming. I’ll be there in half an hour.’

ANNICK

She followed the flapping trouser legs of an estate agent as they climbed up a flight of stairs. Up and up they went – third, fourth, fifth and . . . please God, let this be the last . . . sixth flight, Annick holding onto the bannister for support and hoping to God that her breath would return.

‘It’s a bit of a hike,’ he said cheerfully, as they rounded the last curved flight. ‘That’s why it’s cheap.’

No, it’s cheap because it’s a dump, Annick thought as he opened the door and the smell of stale cooking rushed out. She followed him in. Her heart sank further. The flat was tiny. One room with a kitchen that was little more than a counter along one end of the wall and a shower and toilet that had somehow been squeezed into a cupboard. Everything looked as though it had been covered in a thin layer of grime. The walls were streaked and yellowed; the blinds were broken and the floorboards looked half-rotten. There was an old sofa in one corner of the room that clearly doubled as a bed and in the other, a wardrobe with a door missing. It took all of her self-control not to burst into tears.

‘So . . . what d’you think?’ the agent said cheerfully.

Annick swallowed. ‘It’s . . . it’s small.’

‘Bijoux,’ he supplied helpfully. ‘Cheap to heat, mind you. And easy to clean.’

It was on the tip of her tongue to say
that
obviously hadn’t occurred to the previous tenant but she shut her mouth. She had absolutely no choice. She couldn’t stay with Aunt Libertine a day longer. The previous week she’d found out her qualifications wouldn’t translate after all. She would have to do a conversion course to French law which would cost a small fortune – and who did she think was going to pay for
that
, Aunt Libertine demanded accusingly. Annick had no answer. She’d walked out of the flat determined that morning to find something – anything. By the time she returned in the evening, she had a job. Aunt Libertine looked at her blankly.

‘In a
hotel
? A hotel receptionist?’

Annick nodded. ‘Just . . . just for now.’

‘I see.
Eh bien
. . .’ the rest was left unsaid.

So . . . here she was. From solicitor to hotel receptionist, from Park Lane to Portes Blanches, from daughter of
Président de la République
to penniless orphan. Overnight her life had been turned upside down. There’d been days when she didn’t think she could get out of bed, never mind find a job, or a place to live. Earlier that week, standing in the Métro with the warm wind of an approaching train gusting down the track, she’d felt herself begin to slide. What if she just stepped out in front of it . . . a couple of paces, that was all it would take. She heard the hooter and the metallic scream of brakes as the train began to slow down. All around her were sounds of people going about their ordinary evening lives.

Someone jostled her suddenly, and grabbed her arm. She was pulled back just as the train flashed past. It was an older man. His eyes flickered quickly over her and then he stepped back to allow her to pass. She boarded the train with everyone else, too numb to register the fact that he’d just saved her life. She reached overhead to hold onto a strap, pressing her face tightly into the sleeve of her jacket so that no one would see her tears.

‘It’s two months deposit,’ the estate agent said as he locked the door behind them. ‘And a small fee for the security check.’

‘Oh. I . . . I don’t think . . . I won’t be able to manage two months,’ Annick said, panicking. ‘I don’t have enough saved up.’

‘You have a job?’ He was obviously accustomed to hardship amongst his clients.

She nodded. ‘Yes . . . at a hotel near here. On rue Championnet.’

‘
Ça va, ça va
. One month is fine.’ He hesitated. ‘Can I just ask you something?’

Annick swallowed. ‘Er, yes . . . yes.’

‘You seem like a very, well, like a very well-educated young lady. I heard you speaking English in the office earlier. Are you sure you want to live around here?’

Annick swallowed again. ‘It’s fine for now,’ she said slowly. He had stopped one or two steps below her and was turned towards her, concern showing on his face. She looked away. She couldn’t bear kindnesses, especially not from strangers.

‘It’s just . . . well, it can get a little rough around here, you know. Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer somewhere quieter?’