Little White Lies (8 page)

“I really don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say calmly. It’s time to go home and I would really like to have got to the end of the day without losing my temper.

“Oh, I think you do, Natalie,” Laura says, her mouth twisting into a sort of smile. “Just remember our little conversation, would you?”

“Of course I will,” I say in measured tones as I leave the shop. “And I hope that you will remember that I have nothing to do with that bloody dress.”

I knew I shouldn’t have got out of bed today.

It’s still light when I get home, having failed to find anyone in the Market Bar, and I throw open the sitting room window to let in some air. My flat smells like it did this morning—of hangover, sleep, and smoky clothes. Alistair isn’t in—I crept up to his front door before opening my own door, just to see if I could hear him, and the flat was in total silence.

To be honest, I’m beginning to feel a lot better about things—now that I’ve got a bit of perspective. I wasn’t that embarrassing. And he did invite me for coffee today. That may not sound like much to you, but a couple of weeks ago I would have been ecstatic at an invitation from Alistair—or anyone vaguely interesting. There’s nothing like being on your own to make the smallest social event hugely exciting. I’m beginning to realize why, when I was little, my mother used to get so dressed up just to go out for a meal with my dad—I guess at the time that’s all she had.

I pick up
Vanity Fair
again and start reading. I’m kind of warming to the protagonist Becky, and I’m not sure I’m meant to—she’s really the bad guy in the story.

Before I can draw any conclusions from this, I am interrupted by the phone ringing. I pick up the receiver and wait to hear the voice of my mother. Or someone calling Cressida.

“Hello?”

“Ah, hello.” It’s a man’s voice. Not one I know.

“I, um, my name is Simon. Simon Rutherford,” the voice continues. “You, ah, you left a message for me—last night, I believe. Quite late. And I was, well, rather intrigued actually.”

So it’s not my mother, then. But who is it? The name rings a bell. And the voice sounds sort of familiar. Well, not familiar exactly, but it sort of reminds me of something. Or someone.

“Simon Rutherford?” I ask, playing for time.

“Yes. I work at Henderson. You left a message for me at work. I think it was Leonora who gave you my number?”

Oh God. Oh my good God. And just when I thought things weren’t so bad, as well.

“Um, would you just hold on a minute?” I say in a strangled voice, and put the receiver on the floor.

Somewhere deep inside my memory I see myself opening Cressida’s letter. Reading it. Picking up the phone and calling someone . . .

My heart starts pounding as I look round the side of the sofa. Sure enough, there is a letter. I pick it up and read it. Oh, bollocks. Why am I such an idiot?

I take a couple of deep breaths. Okay, there will be some way out of this. What, though?

I hear a voice coming from the phone, and quickly pick up the receiver.

“Sorry about that,” I manage to say. “I was . . . um . . . cooking. Didn’t want the . . . uh . . . vegetables to boil over. Look, I’m sorry about the message. I really shouldn’t have.”

My hands are clamming up with sweat. “You must think I’m completely mad,” I conclude weakly.

“Not at all! I suppose it’s quite brave to just call someone up. Although three
A.M.
does seem a—well—interesting time to do it. Do you know why Leonora thought we’d get on? I don’t really know her all that well—she’s more of a family friend really—so I was just curious . . .”

Fuck. She’s a family friend. He knows her. He’s going to tell her, and she’ll tell Cressida, and Cressida will know it was me . . .

I rack my brains for a suitable answer, but can’t think of anything. What was I thinking of, calling him like that? Thank God I only had his work number.

“Oh, I don’t know really—I think it was just one of her ideas,” I say eventually.

“Well, if you’re game, I am.”

“Game?”

“To meet up.”

He wants to meet up. He actually wants to meet up. I put my hand over the receiver and mouth a quick “oh, my God,” before composing myself.

“Great!” I hear myself say.

“When’s good for you?”

“When? Oh, um . . .” I pretend to check my diary. “Well, Friday is good for me.”

“Me, too. Shall we say eight-ish? And is the West End okay? I was thinking we could go to Momo.”

“Momo would be fantastic.”

I have no idea what or where Momo is.

“Great. Well, um, I’ll see you there, shall I? There’s, um, just one thing,” Simon says hesitantly.

“Yes?”

“Your name. You, uh, didn’t tell me your name. When you left the message.”

“My name . . .” Okay, this should be an easy question. But I can’t tell him the truth. My story would unravel, Leonora would say she’s never heard of me, and I’ll probably go to prison for opening someone else’s mail. I knew I shouldn’t have opened that letter. I knew it would lead to trouble. Still, I don’t suppose it really matters. It’s not like I’m actually going to keep our little date.

“My name is Cressida,” I hear myself say. “Cressida Langton.”

“Well, Cressida Langton, I will see you on Friday.”

And then the line goes dead.

  5

“Have you ever been to Momo?”

It’s Friday, and having had Laura on my back all week, I’ve finally got a minute to myself with Julie.

She looks at me as if I’m mad. “Momo? ’Course I have. Why?”

“Oh, no reason, I just wondered. It’s nice, isn’t it?”

“ ’S all right, if you like that sort of thing.”

I want to ask her what sort of thing that would be, but I can’t, not now that I’ve made out like I’ve been there. I’ll just have to call information.

Not that I’m going to go, of course.

“By the way, Laura was looking for the Westwood dress,” I say, folding up some Clements Ribeiro T-shirts. “You’re going to have to be careful how you get it back on the shop floor because she was searching the stockroom on Monday.”

“Already taken care of,” says Julie confidently. “I put it on the Dolce and Gabbana rail. You know they do one quite similar? It could easily have been put back there by someone by mistake, couldn’t it?”

I look at her in admiration. She really is a pro.

“Natalie, listen, can I have a quick word while you’re here? It’s about Monday night.”

My heart sinks. No one has mentioned anything about Canvas all week—I thought it had all been forgotten. And now Julie’s going to ask if it’s true that I talk to myself in the mirror. Or tell me that I need to learn how to hold my drink. Or . . .

“The thing is,” she continues, “people have been talking, and I don’t know who started the rumors, but I wanted to clear a few things up.”

Who’s been talking? I wonder. When?

“About me?” I say resignedly. “Look, Julie, I don’t usually talk to myself like that. And I didn’t know Alistair would be in there . . .”

“You? No. Although I want to hear about the talking to yourself later. Look, it’s no biggie—someone saw me and Jason in the toilets and I just wanted to make it clear that I don’t usually do that sort of thing. Not in public, anyway.”

What sort of thing?

“Okay,” I say slowly, trying to figure out what Julie’s talking about. What could she and Jason have been doing in the loo? Unless . . . She couldn’t mean . . .

“Julie, do you mean to tell me you and Jason were . . .”

“Shagging. Yes. And now the bouncer knows, which means Jason is getting wolf whistles every time he goes to work. I’d love to get my hands on the person that told him. But look, you’re not shocked or anything are you?”

I start to laugh. So that’s what Lucy and Alistair were laughing about. Alistair didn’t tell anyone about me talking to myself, after all. And when Lucy was outside my door on Tuesday, she was talking about the fun we’d have teasing Julie . . . God, I can’t believe she was shagging Jason in the loo!

“I think it’s fantastic,” I say with a grin. “Honestly, I really like him.”

“Me too,” says Julie. “But don’t you dare tell him that.”

There’s a woman eyeing up a pair of Gucci sling-backs. I completely understand the look on her face—I mean, they’re gorgeous. I don’t think I’d wear them; they’re really high and pointy and just a bit too much for any of the clothes in my wardrobe, but still. You’ve got to appreciate beauty when you see it, and these shoes are beauty incarnate.

“They’re nice, aren’t they?” I say, walking over. “Do you want to try them on?”

She nods gratefully.

“I also need something to wear with them,” she says, smiling broadly. “Something for a party. Something sexy.”

I can see Julie eyeing her up and down from behind the cash desk, where she’s putting through a couple of scarves for one of our regulars. Julie divides all our customers, sorry, clients, into five distinct types. There’s the “can’t but what the hells” who really shouldn’t be shopping here at all; I mean, they don’t have gold cards or thousands of pounds stashed away in the bank, but they do have credit cards. They tend to shop pretty quickly—running around to try on loads of stuff before their conscience (or bank manager) gets the better of them, and they’re the sort to grab a matching bag to go with their new shoes just before reaching the cash desk. Laura can smell one at five paces and always goes in for the kill, waving beautiful scarves and sweaters in front of them as they walk into the changing rooms.

Next are the “investment buyers” who come in about four times a year and buy loads of stuff for work or weekends or whatever, and basically they want you to tell them what to buy and they pretty much trust you. They’re the clients you want because if they like your advice, they come back, and when they do, they spend a fortune. Julie’s got a whole book full of investment buyers’ names and numbers and she calls them four times a year to tell them what great stuff we’ve just gotten in that they will “just love.” Always works.

Then there are the “fashionistas” who come in about once a month (more sometimes) to get the latest thing, whether it’s a Marc Jacobs dress, Prada bag, or Missoni swimming costume. They want it if it’s new, they like to get it before it’s hit the shop floor, and they are generally magazine editors or stylists. They never use the full name for anything; they talk about Choos and Dolce like they are their best friends. Which is probably because they are their best friends, you know, in a weird kind of way. And they always expect you to know who they are. Like celebrities or something. Usually they’re not that easy, either—like, if you suggest something, they look at you as if you’re completely mad, and if they ask you for some piece of clothing that hasn’t even been designed yet, they get really sniffy when you say there aren’t any in stock. Still, they’re very good about bitching about models and stuff.

Next are the couples, who I think I’ve mentioned before—they come in on Sundays, and with them, shopping is sort of a bit like foreplay. The women try stuff on for the men, who get to sit on nice leather chairs and view them appraisingly; then they get to take out their gold cards and show how rich they are. It’s like a power play—just how much can the woman get the man to spend on her? Usually a lot; so long as the women choose the things their men like. Italian labels are generally quite popular—certainly nothing deconstructed or remotely shapeless. The couples are my favorites because they spend the most, they look like they’re having a good time doing it, and I don’t get any guilt trips about people maxing out their credit cards unnecessarily. Although some of the guys think that spending money in the shop allows them to pat me on the ass, or sneak a look at other girls in the changing rooms. I hate that.

Finally, there are “Saturday girls,” who come in looking for something to wear to a hot date. They sometimes come in twos, occasionally threes, and they are the biggest nightmare. They want to try on everything, and they want the clothes to change their body shape, make their hair shine, improve their posture, and generally make them irresistible. “I mean,” I hear Julie say again and again, “good clothes can make a difference—a big difference sometimes—but they can’t work miracles.” She gets really irritated because “Saturday girls” always disagree over what looks nice and what doesn’t. So a girl will be really happy in a pair of trousers, and her friend will do that twisty thing with her mouth, so that the original girl starts to doubt whether the trousers do actually work after all, and then you hear the immortal phrase “What, does my bum look big or something?” and you know she isn’t going to buy them. I’d get irritated, too, if it weren’t for the fact that Chloe and I are definitely culprits.

I’m not sure whether my “client” is a “can’t but what the hell” or an investment buyer—you know, one who forgot to get party clothes when she bought this season’s outfits. Which means I don’t know whether to steer her toward the luxe range or cheaper lines.

“Do you have a particular look in mind?” I ask her. “We’ve got hundreds of dresses that would be great for a party. It just depends what sort of party.”

“Feminine and sexy,” she says immediately. “There was a nice dress in the window . . .”

I think I know the one she means. We got in a whole load of Marc Jacobs dresses the other day—a really lovely lemon-yellow one, which is gorgeous but you’d need a serious tan to get away with the color, and some others in sort of pinky-fleshy color. Which makes me think investment buyer—these are nearly £1,000 a go! I’m not entirely sure they’re going to work on her—she looks a bit horsey for Marc Jacobs, but you never can tell. I grab a handful and take the girl to the changing room.

The first one doesn’t work at all—too clingy in all the wrong places. But then she puts on this amazing pink number with ribbing all the way down and a little bow at the waist—she looks like she’s a bridesmaid or something. Not exactly sexy, but definitely feminine. She sighs at her reflection.

“So, big party?” I ask her.

“Sort of,” she replies, not taking her eyes off the mirror. “It’s a dinner, actually. With my boyfriend. Only, I’m rather hoping that he won’t be my boyfriend by the end, if you know what I mean.”

I look at her uncertainly. “So you’re breaking up with him?”

“No!” she says sharply. “I want to leave as his fiancée!”

“Of course you do!” I say quickly, cursing myself for my slip-up. “So you’re looking for a ’results’ dress, then? Well, we’ve got sexier dresses, but it depends what he goes for . . .”

“No, this is perfect. You know, wife material,” she says, turning round to contemplate her bum. I hold a mirror up for her.

“So what does he do, this boyfriend?”

“He’s an investment banker, actually.”

I start slightly. Isn’t that what Leonora said Simon did?

“Really?” I say, trying to tone down my interest. “I’ve got a . . . a friend who’s got a date with an investment banker. It sounds very interesting.”

She grins at me. “It isn’t interesting in the slightest, and neither is he. Or any of them, to tell the truth,” she says. “But it is very financially rewarding. You tell your friend to hold on tight. I certainly intend to. And I think this just might be the dress to seal the deal.”

“How . . . how rewarding?” I ask before I can stop myself. God, I wish I could keep my mouth shut—you just can’t go asking clients how much money their boyfriends make. But instead of looking cross, she grins even more.

“Put it this way,” she says softly. “If this dress works, I won’t have to, ever again. In my experience, investment bankers are very simple to satisfy. If he wants something”—she winks conspiratorially at me—“he gets it. And so long as he continues to get what he wants, well, I get pretty much whatever I want, too. He gave me a platinum card, you know. Now, I think I may need a bag to go with this. What do you think?”

By the time she leaves with her new purchases, my mind is spinning. It’s like a business deal, I realize. I could never do that. There’s no way I’m going to meet Simon, if that’s what investment bankers are like. No way at all.

My euphoria at having made such a big sale doesn’t last for long. Laura is in a stinking mood, which means that the rest of the day is pretty miserable for everyone. I do manage to convince a girl that she needs to buy a pair of Helmut Lang trousers and a Marc Jacobs bag, though, which means even more commission today. If I keep going like this, my flat will soon be decked out in new rugs and lamps. Although I wouldn’t mind a pair of those Helmut Lang trousers myself, actually—I think I’d look pretty good in them. I imagine myself walking into Canvas wearing them and some high Gucci sling-backs. And then, on my way home from an evening out, just bumping into Alistair on the stairs or something . . .

“Excuse me.”

I look up, preoccupied with thoughts of Alistair accidentally on purpose brushing past me and kissing my neck before he can stop himself. The girl buying the Helmut Lang trousers and the Marc Jacobs bag looks pointedly at the credit card machine.

“Oh, sorry!” I say, grinning. “Right, that’s £648, please.”

But before she can give me her credit card, Laura calls me.

“Sorry, Laura, can you give me a minute—I’m with a client!” I call back, brightly.

But instead of nodding, Laura walks over toward me.

“No, I cannot give you a minute,” she hisses. “Come over here now.”

Inwardly seething, I smile apologetically at my client, who sort of shrugs, and I walk over to where Laura is standing. Right by the Dolce and Gabbana rail.

“Natalie, do you know what this is?” she asks me.

I peer at the Westwood dress she’s clutching in her hand.

“A Dolce and Gabbana dress?” I ask. She glares back at me.

“No, Natalie. You know and I know that it is not a Gabbana. This is the Westwood dress I was looking for the other day. Remember?”

Her voice is very low and soft, but I can feel the anger in it. I try to look surprised, astonished even.

“No, really? God, I didn’t think to look over here.”

“No? Well, I did. And it wasn’t on the rail then.”

“Are . . . are you sure?” I ask her, looking around for Julie. “I mean, couldn’t you have missed it?”

I try to smile reassuringly at Laura, but she just gets angrier. “Natalie, do you think this is funny? Do you find it humorous that an £800 dress disappears and emerges on the wrong rail days later with a dry-cleaning ticket on it? Because I certainly don’t.”