Little White Lies (39 page)

She looked at her friend now, trying to see her as Julian – or another man – might. She was in the middle of recounting how she’d walked into some showroom on New Bond Street – with an appointment! – and hadn’t managed to get past the receptionist. Perhaps Julian did have a point? Not about not being able to find a boyfriend, but about her stubborn refusal to do anything about her teeth, hair, face, skin. She had bags of style but seemed totally unwilling to change anything about herself. What was it? She had an almost pathological fear of appearing feminine in any way – perhaps it was because of Lyudmila? Despite the fact she’d known Tash for almost half her life, Rebecca barely knew Lyudmila. She found her accent almost impenetrable, but it wasn’t just that. She found Lyudmila childish – sulky and petulant in a way that Tash had never been allowed to be. At times, when they were teenagers, she’d found it hard to believe that Lyudmila was actually the mother. ‘Tash,’ she said hesitantly, wondering whether it was a good idea to go down this particular road.

‘Mmm?’ Tash looked up when nothing more seemed to be forthcoming.

‘Have . . . have you thought about maybe seeing a . . . a dentist? You know, about your teeth? My dentist is brilliant . . . you know where I go, don’t you? Dr Haslam, on Great Titchfield Street. I could make an appointment for you and—’

‘You’re beginning to sound like my mother,’ Tash interrupted her. ‘I’ve got a gazillion things to do that are far more important than my damned teeth,’ she said impatiently. ‘Here I am, trying to get this enterprise off the ground, working day and night, taking on all this debt and all you lot care about is whether or not my teeth are straight and my hair’s been cut. I can’t believe you sometimes.’

‘But, Tash—’

‘But nothing! You’ve got no idea what it’s like, Rebecca. You’ve always had Mummy and Daddy behind you, supporting you all the way, making sure everything’s perfect and just the way their little girl likes it. You’ve never had to work for anything. It’s all there. Well,
I
haven’t. There’s no one behind me. No one. So excuse
me
if I’m not bothered about fixing my teeth or getting a boob job or whatever the fuck it is you think I need. I’ve got other things to worry about.’

‘I never said anything about a boob job,’ Rebecca protested, dismay rising in her like a tide. ‘That’s not what I meant!’

‘Oh, no? You mean Julian didn’t mention that I could do with a little sprucing up? Let me see . . . how would he put it? Lovely girl, Tash, but Christ, she could do with a makeover—’

‘Leave Julian out of this,’ Rebecca said hotly. ‘He would
never
say anything like that.’

‘Come off it. I
know
you, Rebecca. I know when you’re lying and you’re lying now. Why don’t you just admit it? And what did you say in my defence, eh?’

‘You’re being horribly unfair.’

‘Am I? Really, Rebecca? Come on, you don’t have to pretend.’

‘I’m not pretending!’

‘Then why even bring it up?’

‘I just—’ Rebecca stopped, floundering. Her cheeks were warm and, to her horror, she realised they were wet. She was crying. She drew in a deep breath, trying to calm herself down. Tash had it all wrong, as usual. She wanted to help her, for God’s sake. ‘I’m on your side, Tash,’ she said shakily, wiping away her tears. ‘Why d’you always have to be so damned prickly about everything? I’m only trying to help.’

‘Then leave my looks out of it,’ Tash hissed angrily. ‘We can’t all be as perfect as you, Rebecca. Some of us have to
work
at it. At everything. So do me a favour and shut the fuck up about dentists and doctors and hairdressers. If you really want to help me, do something practical.’

‘Like what?’ Rebecca asked helplessly.

‘I don’t know. Figure it out.’ Tash stood up suddenly. She grabbed her bag, yanked it open and pulled out her wallet. ‘Here, I’ll get this. I’ve lost my appetite.’

Rebecca looked up at her, shocked by the anger and frustration etched on Tash’s face. ‘No, no . . . don’t be silly, Tash. I’ll get this. Don’t waste your money—’

‘This isn’t about the
money
, you idiot!’ Tash flung two twenty-pound notes onto the starched white tablecloth. She picked up her jacket. By now everyone in the restaurant, including the two waiters, was staring. ‘Don’t you understand
anything
?’

‘I—’ Rebecca started to protest her innocence but it was too late. Tash grabbed her coat from the back of her chair and was gone.

‘No, no . . . I’m fine. I’ll just . . . can I just have the bill, please?’ Rebecca brushed aside the waiter’s concern. ‘No, I’m fine.’ She dabbed at her eyes with her napkin and fumbled in her bag for her purse. She picked up the money Tash had flung at her and folded it away. She handed over her credit card, studiously ignoring the curious glances of the other diners and, at last, was able to get up and walk out with as much dignity as she could muster. She hurried down the stairs, her heart thumping. She hurried out into the street, holding her handbag above her head against the drizzle and flagged down a cab. ‘Flask Walk. Just off Hampstead High Street.’

‘Right you are.’ The cab swung around and sped off towards the Euston Road. She leaned back against the seat and rubbed her temples. She had a splitting headache. It was just after nine. Julian was in Paris – she wanted to talk to someone about what had just happened, but whom? Outside of Julian, Tash and her immediate family, she had few really close friends. She closed her eyes, squeezing them shut against the headlights coming towards them. It was raining; the light droplets fell against the cab windows in spittle streaks, the tyres making a dull splashing sound as they headed towards Hampstead. It was a Wednesday night and there was little traffic about. Half an hour after she’d climbed in, she was at home. She fished out a twenty-pound note and told the driver to keep the change. She climbed the steps to the pale-blue door that was theirs, slid the key into the lock and shut it firmly behind her.

The smell of the flat that was already specially and uniquely theirs, washed over her. A combination of the candles that she bought every other week from The White Company, the scent of whatever the housekeeper had been cooking that day and her own perfume. She inhaled deeply. As soon as she and Julian were married, Martha, Embeth’s housekeeper of thirty-odd years, had insisted on sending over one of the young women who worked at Harburg Hall. Liz was a pleasant, exceedingly capable woman, just a little older than Rebecca, who came in three times a week. Rebecca’s protests that she didn’t
need
a housekeeper had fallen on deaf ears. Embeth was gently insistent. Embeth won. But it was worth it, Rebecca had to admit to herself. The house, a tall, three-storey Georgian property on the north side of the street, set back from the main road by a narrow strip of grass and the most magnificent cherry tree in their small front garden, would have been impossible for her to keep sparkling clean, polished and dusted in the manner that Julian liked. Liz didn’t just cook and clean – she transformed the house into the sort of gloriously pristine environment that soothed you just to look at it.

She looked down the hallway to the kitchen and dining room beyond. The walls were painted a light, muted grey – Julian’s choice – which complemented his artwork beautifully. There was another Stephen Conroy hanging above the mantelpiece in the living room, and several striking photographs by Gursky, including his famous
Shanghai
in stunning yellows and golds that he’d hung behind the olive linen sofa in the living room. She’d always thought of herself as having good taste but Julian’s taste was bolder. It worked well.

She walked into the living room, kicking off her shoes and letting her coat fall to the ground in a way she wouldn’t have dared do had Julian been home. The whole house was quiet, thrumming to the hidden, silent beat of refrigerators, freezers, immersion heaters, radiators, the paraphernalia of the modern home that renders everything inside it comfortable. She wriggled her bare toes in the luxuriously soft pelt of the sheepskin rug that lay before the fire and sank down into the warm embrace of the sofa. Her hair was damp; she could feel the moisture at the nape of her neck where her coat had failed to stop the rain. A round glass bowl of deep purple and pink peonies – another of Liz’s gifts; she knew exactly what sort of flowers Rebecca liked and where to get them – sat fat and snug on the antique coffee table. She stared at the petals as if seeing them for the first time. There was a beautiful gold and agate necklace lying across the coffee table; she smiled, remembering that she’d left it there that morning as she was getting dressed. She picked it up, letting the delicate gold chain run through her fingers. Her tattoo jumped out at her from the creamy fold of skin between her thumb and forefinger. She touched it lightly and closed her eyes. She could remember the day they’d got them – all three of them, as if it were yesterday.

They all stop. The sign above the door reads Delaney’s Tattoo Parlour. 122 King’s Road, Chelsea. It’s Annick who voices what they’re all thinking. ‘Shall we? Shall we all get one?’

‘The same one?’ That’s Tash. ‘All of us?’

‘Won’t it hurt?’

‘Oh, Rebecca.’ Both Tash and Annick turn to look at her.

‘Sue Parker’s brother got one done the other day. She said he said it hurt like hell.’

‘Yeah, but I bet his covered half of his back, or something stupid like that. We’re only going to get something small.’

‘Like what?’

Annick shrugs. ‘How about a rose?’

Tash rolls her eyes. ‘Bo-ring. Let’s get something that actually means something. To all of us.’

‘Like what?’ Rebecca’s curiosity gets the better of her.

‘How about something . . . something like that?’ Tash points to the window, which is covered in stickers and posters and drawings of all the things that, for a modest fee, can be yours, anywhere you want on your own body.

‘Which one?’ Annick steps closer to see.

‘That one. The triangle. Three points – that’s us.’

‘How about a triangle set in a circle?’ Annick’s idea.

‘Genius. Fucking genius.’ Tash grins. ‘The three of us, together, always. I love it. Here, right here where we’ll always see it.’ She points to that tender spot between thumb and forefinger, that little fold of skin which, when the hand is spread, opens out.

‘Come on, before Rebecca chickens out,’ Annick laughs.

‘I won’t.’ Rebecca suppresses the small tremor of fear and apprehension in her stomach. A tattoo. What on earth would her mother say? ‘Does . . . does it have to be right there?’ she looks at her hand. ‘Can’t it be somewhere more . . . well, hidden?’

‘Scaredy-cat. You’re afraid of what your mum’s going to say. Don’t worry, when your hand’s closed, you hardly see it.’

It was the ‘scaredy-cat’ that did it. That and the fact that Tash was right; when her hand was closed, it was barely visible. A thin blue line on either side of the fold. When Julian first saw it, he’d hooted with delight. ‘You, with a tattoo? I can’t think of anything more unlikely. Sexy.’

She opened up her hand, flexing it awkwardly. They were only two points on the triangle now. Herself and Tash. And if tonight’s conversation were anything to go by, she’d soon be left with one.

She put her elbows on her knees and cupped her chin in her hands. She looked at the books laid carefully on the mahogany coffee table – books on African art, tribal pattern-making, modern architecture in Brazil, glossy books on photography and Oriental rugs . . . the usual display of educated tastefulness, wide-ranging and erudite in the way she’d been brought up to be. Her mother’s interior designers had worked on the house and seemed to have instinctively understood the need to modernise Embeth’s tastes, but not so much that the younger version broke off all connection with the past. Where the Old Masters hung in Harburg Hall, younger, more contemporary works were displayed here, supplemented by Julian’s tastes, which ran somewhere in between. Sitting there like that, her feet splayed on either side of her knees, a strange mood of childish resentment began to steal over her. She was completely alone. Julian wouldn’t be back until the following day. Somewhere in the kitchen a chime sounded. Ten o’clock. She had absolutely no one to talk to and nothing to do. She ought to pick up the phone and ring Tash, find out if she was all right. She hesitated. Knowing Tash she’d refuse to pick up and then Rebecca would spend the rest of the evening in a frenzy of worry.

Her mobile buzzed suddenly. She fished it out of her pocket. She bit her lip. It was Julian. The silly, high-pitched ring tone droned on and on. She
ought
to answer it. Her fingers hovered. Then it stopped abruptly.
Missed Call. Julian (mob. Fr)
. She stared at the screen for a few minutes, then she got up slowly, slipped the phone back into her pocket and walked out of the living room.

She pushed open their bedroom door. The long, mauve silk curtains at the far end shrouded the room in a dusky, rosy light. The light grey carpet was soft underfoot. Humming a little to herself, she walked across the room, pulling off her clothes as she went. She dropped her silk blouse into the laundry basket and slowly unbuckled her jeans. She slipped off her bra and underwear and walked naked into the bathroom. She switched on the lights and stood for a moment in the doorway, looking around her. Despite her vast array of cosmetics, perfumes, creams and potions, it was a resolutely masculine space. The floor and walls were of grey-and-white marble, including the two side-by-side washbasins which sat proud of a thick, marble slab. At one end was the shower, a vast, black-tiled room of its own with two impressive showerheads and a complicated nozzle-and-showerhead affair that Rebecca seldom used. A clawed cast-iron bath stood in the middle, which, again, she seldom stepped into. One wall was entirely mirrored; she looked at her naked profile as she began to pin her hair up in preparation for a shower. She still carried the faint tan lines she’d acquired on holiday with her family in the South of France. She’d worn the same bikini every day, worried about a criss-cross of mismatched lines on her skin that, despite its creamy whiteness, turned olive at the merest touch of the sun. That was Embeth.