Little White Lies (63 page)

It took her two hours to go through all fourteen brochures and by the time she was finished, her head was spinning. She had a meeting at eleven – just under an hour to go – and all she could think about was low-ceilinged barns, wooden rafters, kitchens the size of whole houses and wild grass lawns. Nantucket Sound, Katama Bay, Menemsha Pond, Squibnocket Bight. What on earth was a ‘squibnocket’?

She hummed to herself as she tidied everything away. She didn’t want Adam to see what she was up to. She wanted to surprise him. She couldn’t remember when the idea of a second home had come to her. Perhaps it was hearing him talk about New York? She’d suddenly had a longing to visit New York again. It had been almost ten years since her trip with Rosie. All she could remember was the sheer excitement of it all – the yellow cabs, the vertical canyons of buildings, the lights, the buzz, the atmosphere. It was true what they said – New York was less a city than a
feeling
. She suddenly wanted to feel it again and what better way than to have a place there? Not
in
the city, per se, but somewhere just outside it. Somewhere beautiful, calm, tranquil . . . a place to entertain family and friends, to invite her godchildren.

It was at this last that her pulse really began to race. She and Adam hadn’t had
that
conversation. She wouldn’t have even known how to bring it up. Did she actually
want
a child? She’d never taken any precautions against having one, and neither had he, but nothing had happened. She was thirty-seven: old enough to wonder, too young to panic, as Annick delicately put it. It’ll happen, she assured her blithely, ‘just when you least expect it.’ Tash wasn’t sure quite what was meant by ‘when you least expect it’, but she let it pass. It seemed odd to be taking advice from Annick and Rebecca when she was always the one dispensing it.

She stowed the brochures away in the dresser in the hallway and made her way upstairs. She had a photo shoot in the studio to oversee at eleven, then an afternoon meeting with her accountants. She pulled a face. Meetings with accountants she endured; a photo shoot was a much more interesting way to spend a day.

By four o’clock, she was struggling to stay awake. Cash flow; balance sheets; off-shore investments; her portfolio; tax breaks; insurance policies; over- and under-exposure . . . she had to keep nudging herself as the accountants droned on and on. Every so often her eyes fell to her BlackBerry, nestling in the palm of her hand. Across from her sat Colin, calm and capable as ever. She trusted him to grasp the finer points of whatever it was they were discussing. Did they have enough to do what she wanted? That was all she cared about.
How
they got there was Colin’s business.

She looked down at the message list on her Blackberry again. There were half a dozen emails from the various estate agents she’d contacted in Cape Cod. One was marked ‘highest priority’. She glanced around the table; the four men were busy discussing the finer points of balance sheets. She surreptitiously clicked on it and her heart began to race.
12 Pohoganot Road, Martha’s Vineyard. This signature home is sitting high on a bluff with breathtaking water views in three directions: the Atlantic Ocean to the south, Paqua Pond to the east and Ripley Cove to the west.
It was the photograph that caught her attention, tiny as it was. It was of a grey shingle, two-storey house with whitewashed trim, three or four chimneys, a beautiful sweep of lawn and beyond, the bluest, freshest skies she’d ever seen and an ocean view to die for. She stared at it. 6,900,000 dollars. Five bedrooms, five bathrooms, a pool, tennis courts, a guest house and – best of all – a beautiful old barn on the northern slope, away from the house. She swallowed hard. She scrolled across the screen, her pulse accelerating by the second.
Hi Ms Bryce-Brudenell. Please call me as soon as you can. This property’s just come on the market and we’ve had a lot of interest already. It’s
totally
special, even though it needs quite a bit of work. It’s a bargain at the price! Look forward to speaking. Yrs., Janine van Wolmer.

She glanced at her watch. It was nearly five: eleven in the morning in Martha’s Vineyard. She’d better get to it before anyone else did.

‘Tash?’ Colin’s voice brought her abruptly back to the meeting at hand.

‘Huh?’

‘We were just wondering . . . there’s a transfer amount here,’ Colin pointed to some random figures on a spreadsheet. ‘It’s into your private account, not one of the company accounts. It seems a little odd.’

Tash had no idea what he was talking about, but all she wanted to do was look at the pictures of the house she’d just received. She’d never wanted anything so badly before. She got up from the table, clutching the phone. ‘I’m sure it’s fine. Must’ve been something for my mother. I’ve got to run, I’m afraid – something’s come up.’ She grabbed her bag and practically ran from the room. She heard Colin’s calm, measured voice as she closed the door behind her.

‘Well, you heard her. She often transfers large amounts to her mother. They’ve been thinking of setting something up in Russia, I believe. I’ll get the details later.’

She galloped back down the stairs to her office, fingers already dialling Janine’s number. On the third ring, it was answered. ‘Is that Janine? Tash Bryce-Brudenell here. Has it gone? The house on Pohoganot Road? Is it still available?’

‘Well, hi there,’ Janine’s friendly voice crackled down the line, shaming her. ‘How
are
you?’

‘Fine, fine . . . has it gone?’

‘No, not yet. It’s a
very
special property, Tash. May I call you Tash?’

‘Yes, yes, of course. When can I see it?’

‘You’re in London, England, right? I just
love
London. In fact, I love England. I was there—’

‘Janine, we can talk about England when I get there. Give me two days and please,
please
don’t show it to anyone else. I’ve got a really good feeling about the property – I can’t explain it. Can you do that for me? Just keep it under wraps for a couple of days. I’ll be able to tell you straight away if I’m taking it.’

‘Why, of course, Tash.’ Janine was practically purring. Tash could hear it down the line. ‘Two days, you say? Today’s what, Thursday?’

‘I’ll be there by Saturday morning. I’ll get my secretary to forward my itinerary.’ She put the phone down before Janine could extract any further promises. She hugged herself tightly. It would be her secret to everyone. She’d have to make up some reason why she had to be in the US that weekend but she knew in her heart of hearts that it would be hers. A holiday home for everyone – Adam, Rebecca, Julian, Annick, Yves, their kids, her mother . . . everyone. She could already picture it. Long summer evenings by the pool; Christmases when the beach was knee-deep in snow; autumn walks as the children grew older, kicking at red and gold leaves, mulled wine and gingerbread cookies by the many fireplaces. The barn could be converted into a studio or an office for Adam; the guest house could be Lyudmila’s pied-à-terre . . . it would be open all year round to whomever wanted it. They could use it as a location, entertain clients if she felt like it when she went over for the shows. Anna Wintour had a home nearby. Hell, half of New York’s fashion world summered in Martha’s Vineyard. It was perfect. The perfect backdrop for all the different facets of her life. She hugged herself in giddy, half-nervous anticipation. Was this
really
her life?

REBECCA
Jerusalem

Under heavy, rain-sodden skies, the last of the mourners made their way across the stony path, away from the graves and the spectacular views over the Old City. To her right lay Yad Vashem, the memorial to the Holocaust that she dimly remembered visiting as a child, with her parents. Rain fell in small, sharp needles, hitting the taut fabric of her umbrella before sliding down in pearly, crystal droplets, falling towards the ground. Maryam was struggling a little; snuggled up against her mother in a red parka with a fur trim around the hood to keep her warm, she sucked her thumb, humming to herself as she often did. ‘What’re you singing, darling?’ Rebecca would often ask her, searching those beautiful, mysterious eyes that held her own captive as she searched for what lay behind. But Maryam would only look at her, deeply, then smile and turn away.

The party who’d come to bury Bettina Harburg, the last of Lionel’s sisters, had gathered in small groups at the entrance to the cemetery, huddled under umbrellas. Julian walked slowly beside her. She felt his gaze turn from the mourners to a tall figure in a dark grey overcoat who stood on the other side of the turnstile. Who’s that?’ he asked, jerking his head in the man’s direction. ‘Why doesn’t he come inside?’

Rebecca looked across the square. Her heart missed a beat, a whole, entire beat. She thought she might drop Maryam. ‘Wh-who?’ she stammered, knowing full well who it was.

‘Him . . . there, over there by the turnstile.’

She forced herself to look round and look away again. ‘No idea,’ she said quickly. She bent her head to Maryam’s, praying her cheeks weren’t the colour of her coat.

‘He looks a bit suspicious. Is he an Arab, d’you think?’

‘Oh, Julian . . . don’t be silly.’

‘I’m not. Hang on a moment. Here, take this.’ He passed the umbrella to her and moved off, heading for a small group of men in black coats – the rabbi who’d come to officiate and a few others. She could see her mother talking to someone; another relative whom she’d never met. Her heart was thumping so hard it hurt. Maryam must have sensed it; she stirred restlessly in her arms. She didn’t dare go across to where Tariq stood. She didn’t even dare look at him. She stood there, cold rain dripping down the back of her own coat, unable to think straight. She knew why he was there. He wanted to see his daughter. She was nearly three months old now and he hadn’t yet seen her. It was Rebecca’s first trip back to Israel. She’d baulked at the idea of Tariq coming to London. The night before their departure, she’d left Maryam with the nanny and rushed out to the shops along Hampstead High Street, her mobile clutched to her ear. ‘I
can’t
,’ she said, tears flowing down her cheeks. ‘I just daren’t risk it, Tariq.
Please
don’t ask me.
Please
.’

‘Just tell him you’re going to visit a friend,’ he’d exploded. ‘What the hell’s the matter with you, Rebecca? I haven’t even seen her yet.’

‘I know, I know. I’ll . . . I’ll try. I can’t promise anything. You don’t know Julian . . . I sometimes wonder if he suspects.’

‘I don’t give a damn about Julian. She’s
my
child, Rebecca.’

‘I know.’ She began to cry in earnest, like a child. Her face would be all blotchy and swollen by the time she got back to the house, she knew, but she didn’t care.

And now, here he was, standing on the other side of the barrier that separated them, waiting for her. She saw Julian ask something of one of the older men, who looked over at Tariq. Something was going to happen; she could feel it. She held onto Maryam tightly as Julian and two others broke away from the group and moved towards the gate. Tariq stood his ground, watching them as they walked purposefully towards him. Her heart was thumping as they drew near. She was too far away to hear what was said but, from their expressions and gestures, they were less than welcoming. She stood by helplessly as one of them – not Julian, she was pathetically grateful to see – pushed a finger into Tariq’s shoulder, much the way one would chastise a child. He jabbed at Tariq several times until Tariq caught hold of his finger, forcing him to stop. Behind them, two young soldiers, their guns strapped across their chests, began to move towards them, clearly wondering what was going on. Her heart in her mouth, she watched as Tariq slowly brushed his overcoat with his palm and then turned around and walked off, leaving Julian and the three or four men who’d joined him, watching after him, obviously wondering who the hell he was.

Maryam stirred again; she was getting hungry. There were tears in Rebecca’s eyes, which she quickly brushed away as she hoisted Maryam onto her hip and moved towards the gate. She wanted nothing more than to run after Tariq and beg his forgiveness, not just for the silly little incident that had just happened, but for everything.

‘He
was
an Arab,’ Julian said angrily, coming up to them. He brushed at his own jacket as though he feared some part of Tariq, perhaps, had rubbed off onto him. ‘Why they don’t stop them, I’ll never understand.’

Rebecca looked up at him, a sudden wave of revulsion and shame spreading through her. ‘Let’s go,’ she said tightly, not trusting herself to say anything more. ‘Maryam’s hungry.’

‘Don’t you want to—’

‘No, I don’t,’ she interrupted him coldly. ‘I want to go home.’ She didn’t wait for his answer but pulled Maryam’s hood more tightly around her head and marched ahead, oblivious to the stinging rain.

Pick up the phone. Please pick up. Please, please, please
. The shrill, insistent single tone droned on, and on and on. There was no response, no pick up, no request to leave a message . . . nothing. It was perhaps the hundredth time she’d call him since the funeral three days earlier and still there was no response. She was back in the flat in Tel Aviv. Jerusalem was a good hour and a half away . . . how on earth would she explain it to anyone if she simply took the car and drove off?

From the kitchen she could hear the sounds of the twins being fed. Julian had gone out to dinner with a business associate and would be back any moment. Her mother had already gone home. She tapped her fingers on the sideboard, a sudden urgency blowing up inside her like one of those summer thunderstorms, bewildering in their intensity. Should she . . . ? Maryam was fast asleep. She was such a good little baby; she only cried when she was hungry and even then, softly, as though she were talking to herself, not crying. She was so unlike her brothers. They, like Julian, were full of passions. Arguments, tantrums, quicksilver changes of mood. Not Maryam. She slept and gurgled her way through the drama surrounding her without so much as a whimper.
What are you thinking?
Rebecca longed to ask her as she stared at her face, liquid black eyes opening slowly, blinking contentedly under the scrutiny, like Tariq sometimes did.