Little White Lies (20 page)

After lunch, Simon’s younger brother, Peter, turns up to pick up Oscar and Jacob. He’s taller than Simon and more roguish in appearance. He grins flirtatiously at me and teases Simon about the car we drove down in.

“Bloody investment bankers, you’re all the same. Simon, you may not be well endowed, but really, buying a car like that is only going to emphasize the fact!”

Simon blushes a deep red. “Pete, have you met my girlfriend Cressida? The one who is probably going to leave soon if you don’t shut up?”

Pete winks at me. “So you’ve actually managed to find someone to go out with you, Si? Amazing. Cressida, any problems, you just come to me, okay? I’m afraid all the talents and looks in the family went to me, but Simon is good at . . .” He pauses. “Simon, sorry, remind me again, what it is you’re good at?”

Simon picks up a book and throws it in Peter’s direction. “Don’t you have some children to pick up?” he asks accusingly.

“Oh God, do I really have to? Sarah’s still out shopping. Mum. Mum!” He calls out loudly, and Tilly appears at the door.

“Darling, the boys are ready to go,” she says. “Jacob’s just looking for his shoe.”

“Oh well, looks like I’m lumbered with them . . .” Peter says laconically as Oscar races into his arms.

“Daddy, Daddy, I scored three goals in the garden. And Jacob only got one,” Oscar tells him, breathless with excitement.

“Just think, Simon,” says Peter with a grin, “one day you’ll have all this to look forward to. Goals in the garden, toys everywhere, not a moment’s peace and quiet. You have no idea how nice it was this morning, Sarah out, the children out, just being able to sit down and read the papers without interruption. Ah, happy days . . . Still, great way to chat up women. I just have to leave the house with the children and I get women coming up to me. Why is that, Cressida?”

Peter and Simon turn to me expectantly, and I find myself blushing furiously.

“Oh, I’m sure it’s just pity,” I say, smiling.

“So you don’t suffer from this maternal-instinct affliction that affects the rest of womankind?” Peter continues, looking at me quite intently. My blush deepens. I hardly want Simon thinking that I’m desperate for marriage and children. But nor do I want him thinking I don’t want those things one day. You know, later. Maybe. Actually, probably definitely.

“I don’t think many people are immune,” I say uncertainly. “But it’s all about timing.”

I turn to Simon hesitantly and he grins at me. “Peter is an arse,” he says cheerfully. “Just ignore him. He’s just trying to get a rise.” I smile at him, and see with relief that Jacob has now appeared and is attempting to climb onto Peter’s back.

“Oscar wouldn’t let me have the ball,” he complains as Peter picks him up. “He kept scoring goals and I didn’t even get a kick.”

“That’s because you were the goalie,” explains Oscar.

“But I didn’t want to be the goalie.”

Oscar shrugs, then deftly pushes Jacob over when Peter isn’t looking. Predictably, Jacob starts to cry.

“Right, time to get you lads home to see Mummy,” Peter tells them, then calls out to Archie, who is nowhere to be seen, “Dad, are we still on for golf tomorrow?”

“Golf?” I hear a muffled shout from upstairs. A few minutes later, Archie appears at the top of the stairs.

“Three o’clock okay?” Peter calls as he walks toward the front door.

“Better make it four,” says Archie. “Come for tea beforehand. Simon, you’ll be staying for tea, won’t you?”

Simon looks at his watch. “Yes, I should think so. Cress, if we head off here at about four-ish, we should miss the worst of the traffic heading into London. What do you think?”

I nod vaguely. Tomorrow seems ages away—I don’t really care if we go back at all right now.

“Marvelous,” he says with a grin, and claps Peter on the back. “See you tomorrow, then. Is Sarah going to bring the boys round?”

“I should think so,” says Peter, walking out to the drive.

Simon puts his arms round me and bends down to whisper in my ear. “Do you want to see the village? I don’t suppose you’ve spent much time in traditional English villages, have you?”

I manage a little smile.

“Not much at all,” I say, silently adding,
If you don’t count the whole of my life except for my three years at university and the past couple of months.
Still, it’s the perfect opportunity to tell Simon the truth.

“There’s a lovely pub right on the river,” he continues. “Had my first legal drink there. And lots of illegal ones before that, of course. Then we could take a walk . . .” As he talks, Tilly comes out of the kitchen, and Simon stands up straight.

“Mum, we are going for a walk,” he says confidently.

I feel Simon’s hand squeezing my bottom in a manner that suggests he means something quite different from walking.

“What a very good idea,” says Tilly. “We could all . . .” But she trails off as she catches Simon’s eye.

“. . . we could all meet back here later,” she concludes after a brief pause. “Simon, darling, if you pass a shop, would you mind buying some milk?”

And blushing slightly, she wanders back toward the kitchen.

  14

The pub is the sort of place that you can’t imagine ever having not existed. It’s bang, smack in the middle of the village, with the village green on one side and a river on the other. Cricketers are playing on the green, and we take our beers out to a table outside to watch them. People smile at us, and say hello to Simon. It’s even more English than Castle Coombe, and that’s really saying something.

“Doesn’t look like we’re doing too well,” Simon says, nodding toward the scoreboard. I smile sympathetically. To be honest, I’ve never really understood cricket. Don’t get me wrong, I love the game, but it’s the clothes and the sun and the sitting outside drinking that I like. I’ve never actually mastered the rules. But somehow, sitting here with Simon, I wish I had.

“It’s beautiful,” I say happily.

Simon grins. “You like it here? I thought you’d hate it. I mean, it’s hardly Notting Hill, is it? I thought you’d dismiss it as terribly uncool.”

I smile. He’s right, in a way. This is the same landscape I grew up in. I know it, understand it. And maybe it’s more a part of me than I realized. Then there’s the wonderful feeling of community. That’s what’s wrong with London. I mean, it’s exciting and fun, but you don’t get the same sense of belonging in the city. I smile to myself as I remember how claustrophobic it made me feel. Somehow it feels different, sitting here with Simon.

“Not uncool,” I say pointedly. “It’s lovely. And anyway, just because I live in London, it doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate the country.”

“I suppose you’re right,” says Simon. “So does that mean you’d actually consider leaving the metropolis one day?” He’s smiling, but his eyes look serious.

“I don’t really know,” I say wistfully. “I thought I would never go back to the country, but I’m not sure anymore.”

“Back to the country?” Simon says, surprised. “But I thought you were born in London?”

Bollocks. I forgot that I told Simon I grew up in London. It just seemed to fit with the whole Cressida persona.

“We used to . . . holiday . . . in the country,” I say hesitantly. “Not too far away from here actually. Near Bath.”

“Lovely place,” agrees Simon, looking into the middle distance. “I know what you mean about not knowing what you think anymore, though,” he says. “I thought I knew exactly what I wanted, too. . . .”

Then he turns to me. “Have you ever wanted to do something completely different—you know, really change your life?”

What, like changing your name and adopting someone else’s life, I think to myself.

“I suppose,” I say slowly. “But I’m not sure you ever really change. Only on the surface . . .” I clench my fists. This is the time to tell Simon the truth. About being Natalie. If I can find the right words, maybe he’ll understand.

But before I can open my mouth, Simon looks away. “Yes, you’re probably right,” he says seriously. He looks so thoughtful. Maybe now isn’t the best time to tell him, after all. I want to tell him when he’s more cheerful—so he can see the funny side.

Or, of course, I could forget the whole “telling him” idea altogether. I frown as I think through my options.

1. Change my name to Cressida Langton.

Pros:
No need to tell Simon or his lovely family that I’m a fraud.

Cons:
My parents may be a bit upset. And it might seem a bit weird at work.

2. Cut off contact with anyone who knows me as Natalie and just keep the charade going.

Pros:
Straightforward approach, simple to follow.

Cons:
Never see Mum and Dad again? Maybe that’s a bit too draconian.

3. Convince Simon I want to change my name to Natalie Raglan.

Pros:
Ah-hah! Fantastic idea! Problem solved.

Cons:
Except it isn’t, is it. As soon as he meets my family, he’ll find out I was always called Natalie Raglan.

4. Leave Simon and never see him again.

Pros:
None. That’s a ridiculous idea. In fact, this whole list idea is ridiculous. I’m just going to tell him the truth. I just have to get him in the right mood, that’s all.

“So,” I say, trying to lighten the mood. “Are you thinking of a career change or something? It’s just that there’s a sign in the pub—they’re looking for a bar assistant!”

I laugh, but Simon still looks serious. “I am, yes. In a way. At least I think I am . . . I want to do something worthwhile. Something that actually means something to someone,” he says seriously.

“You mean something to me,” I say softly, leaning over to kiss him.

His face crinkles into a smile. “Something? I just mean
something
to you?”

“Yes, well, you don’t know how big the something is, do you?” I say playfully. “Anyway, I think you should choose whatever career you want. So long as you can keep me in Alberta Ferretti dresses, that is . . .”

Simon looks at me for a couple of seconds, then stands up.

“Fancy a walk?” he asks.

We wander down by the river, and end up sitting under a tree, thin rays of sun reaching us through the leaves.

It’s a beautiful spot. The perfect place to tell Simon about the whole Natalie/Cressida debacle. I mean, he might even find it funny. You know, maybe . . .

“Simon,” I say before I can change my mind, “there’s something I need to tell you. Something I wasn’t completely, well, honest about.”

He looks up sharply, then grins.

“Come on then, tell me what it is. Actually, no, don’t. Let me guess. You’re . . . part alien? No, that’s not it. You’re . . . sixty years old with a very good plastic surgeon? No, that’s not right either. Um . . . ooh, I know, you’re not Cressida Langton, but an evil impostor who’s tied up the real Cressida and locked her in a cupboard somewhere . . .”

I go bright red as Simon laughs out loud.

“She’s in my dungeon, actually,” I say with a very unconvincing smile.

“So come on, then, what is it that you wanted to tell me?” says Simon, looking at me expectantly.

“Um . . .” I say hesitantly. How can I tell him now? He’ll think I’m joking. Or criminally insane. Either way, there’s just no way I can bring myself to tell him that our entire relationship was built on deception.

Anyway, I think what I’m doing could be illegal.

Simon’s still looking at me. Shit, if I’m not going to tell him about the whole Cressida thing, I’m going to have to think of something else to tell him.

“I don’t really think my future’s in fashion advertising,” I say eventually. Well, at least that isn’t a lie. I mean, I don’t work in fashion advertising anymore, so it’s unlikely I could have a future in it.

Simon looks at me happily. “I’m so pleased,” he says, smiling. “You’re going to concentrate on Reiki, aren’t you? That’s so great—I was talking to Mum about it earlier . . .”

“You told your Mum I do Reiki?”

Shit. Bollocks. What if she wants me to do Reiki on her? I can’t see her falling for the let’s-watch-
EastEnders
-instead ruse.

“Yes—she thinks it’s great! Cress, I think you’re doing absolutely the right thing. You should be really proud . . .”

I stare at him. Oh God. This is going from bad to worse. I want to scream, to shout that I don’t give a damn about bloody Reiki. I want him to know who I really am. I want him to tell me everything’s going to be okay. I don’t want any more lies. But now it seems that it’s the lie that Simon’s in love with. This whole relationship is built on nothing—he thinks I’m someone completely different. I mean, how can he be in love with me? He doesn’t even know who I am!

The thing is, I thought I could handle it. I thought everything would work out. But maybe I bit off more than I could chew. Is that it? Is this some kind of punishment for giving in to temptation?

“You have to do it,” Simon continues, taking my hand. “Really, you have to, Cress. Life is too bloody short to get stuck doing marketing when you want to be doing something really important.”

I look up at him glumly, trying to force back the tears. “You really think Reiki is important?” I ask him.

“Of course. Whatever you want to do is important,” says Simon, his eyes shining. “You just need a game plan.”

I smile weakly. “Game plan?”

“You know, a plan of action.” He looks so enthusiastic. Like he thinks I could really be some successful Reiki healer. I love him for his belief in me, however misplaced. But that’s the point, isn’t it? All his feelings are misplaced.

“Simon, there is no game plan,” I say after a while. “I’m not going to be a full-time Reiki healer. Don’t be ridiculous.”

I shake my head for emphasis, and Simon looks all deflated.

“You’re probably right,” he says sadly, getting up to go and holding his hand out to me. “Back on the old treadmill, eh?”

We walk in silence most of the way home. All the way, I talk to him in my head. I tell him I’m not Cressida. Tell him I’m not a bloody Reiki healer, and not a family friend of some missionary worker in India. I come from Bath, I say gently. I’ve been utterly stupid, and I’m truly sorry. Please forgive me.

But the words don’t reach my lips, and Simon walks along blissfully unaware.

The cricket match is still going strong as we pass the village green and a few minutes later we arrive back. I put my arm around Simon’s waist as we approach the house. There is something about it, about Simon’s parents, which is gnawing away at my emotions. Maybe it’s the fact that I still haven’t told Simon the truth, but I feel like laughing, or crying, or maybe both. It just that after London, it feels so welcoming—like a proper home, where people argue and make up and talk and play and . . . well, live. And I like it here.

Tilly is at the front door looking excited.

“You’ll never guess who’s here!” she says, running out to meet us in the driveway.

“Father Christmas?” asks Simon in a deadpan voice. He’s been quiet ever since our conversation by the river.

“Don’t be silly. No, it’s Leonora! She’s back in England for a couple of months, and I told her the other day that you were both coming down. She called just after you left to say she was coming over. Cressida, you didn’t tell us that she’s your godmother!”

My heart almost stops beating, and my hands clam up.

“Le . . . Leonora? She’s here?” More to the point, she’s Cressida’s godmother? Oh, shit.

Why did I not see this coming? How could I just have expected to come and stay with Simon’s parents without something like this happening?

“Yes! She’s so looking forward to seeing you. And you, too, Simon. So, did you have a good walk?”

“We had a wonderful walk, didn’t we, Cress? . . . Cress?”

“What? Oh, yes. Yes, a lovely walk . . .”

I think I’m going to faint. Or be sick. Or maybe both. I can’t feel my legs. Can’t see properly. Is this what they call a panic attack?

“Cress . . . Cress, are you okay?”

Simon is looking at me with a worried look on his face.

“Simon,” I try to say, but have difficulty forming any words.

The last thing I remember is the feeling of gravel hitting the side of my face very hard.

I move my face slowly from side to side. It’s soft, cool. A pillow! It’s a pillow! I must have dreamt the whole thing. Oh, thank God. I’m at home and none of it happened. Simon will probably be arriving very soon to whisk me away for the weekend . . .