Little White Lies (26 page)

‘What can I get you, ma’am?’ Mr Good-Looking Barman was in front of her in a flash. He slid a leather-bound menu across the counter.

‘I . . . I think I’ll just have a Martini,’ Tash said weakly.

‘Very good, ma’am. We have several flavours to choose from . . . here, take a look.’ He flicked open the menu. Tash’s eyes bulged.
Abbey Cocktail. Algonquin Cocktail. Apple Cider Martini. Apple Martini. Apple Pie Martini. April Rain. Aviation Cocktail. Bamboo Cocktail. Big Breezy. Biltmore. Black and Gold. Black Martini. Blood Martini
.

She pointed to one halfway down the list.
English Rose
. ‘I’ll have that one,’ she said decisively. She had no idea what was in it, but the name was serendipitous.

‘Very good, ma’am,’ he repeated, flashing those amazing teeth. ‘And a little something to snack on, perhaps? We have an excellent carb-free menu.’

It was on the tip of her tongue to ask him why he thought she’d be interested in a carb-free menu but the sheer choice involved shut her up.
Traditional Shrimp Cocktail with Cream-free Horseradish Cocktail Sauce; Spicy Tuna Tartare with Daikon Sprouts; Avocado and Smoked Salmon with Capers; Jersey Heirloom Tomato Burrata with Balsamic Reduction Crème Fraîche; Tempura Shrimp with Miso-and-Pineapple Glaze
. ‘Er, that.’ She pointed to the
Spicy Tuna Tartare
.

‘Excellent choice, ma’am.’ He withdrew, still smiling. A few seconds later, her cocktail appeared in front of her.

‘What’s in this?’ she asked, taking a cautious sip.

He rattled off the ingredients. ‘Two ounces gin, one ounce dry vermouth, an ounce of apricot brandy, half an ounce of lemon juice, splash of grenadine and a maraschino cherry for garnish. Slightly sweeter than a traditional martini, but you don’t look as though you need to worry about that.’

‘Oh.’

Rosie suddenly appeared. ‘An old-fashioned Martini, no olives,’ she said briskly to the bartender. ‘And no snacks,’ she said severely. At that very moment, of course, Tash’s
Spicy Tuna Tartare
arrived.

Tash swallowed nervously. ‘I . . . uh—’

‘Oh, go ahead. You obviously don’t have to worry about your weight,’ Rosie said, uncharacteristically gracious. ‘Yet.’

‘Ah, Tom’s here,’ she said, catching sight of an exceedingly dapper, exceedingly good-looking man who’d just walked in. Tash nearly fell off her stool. It was Tom Ford. ‘And there’s Charlie.’ Within minutes there was a small coterie of the most powerful people in fashion surrounding them.

Tash immediately moved off to one side. She wasn’t about to join in their conversations. She was content to observe them, especially Rosie. With her short, orange bob, chiselled cheekbones and impeccably porcelain skin, she was certainly elegant and attractive, but was she actually beautiful? It was hard to say. She looked a good ten years younger than she actually was – somewhere in her mid-fifties, Tash had heard – but Tash couldn’t decide which was the more apt adjective – beautiful or stylish? She sipped her drink and tried not to look as though she was listening.

‘So, who’re you seeing tomorrow, darling?’ Tom asked Rosie playfully.

‘Oh, the usual suspects,’ Rosie quickly deflected the question. ‘We’re seeing you in London next week, aren’t we? You’re opening a new store. How exciting.’

If Tom recognised he was being put off, he was far too wellmannered to show it. It was all a game, Tash realised, draining her glass. The designers courted powerful editors like Rosie. With one wellplaced comment, she could make or break a designer’s career, but at the same time, she needed them. She needed to be seen within their inner circle, to be snapped by the paparazzi with them at bars like this one, at events like the MoMA exhibition where they were headed, and at the after-hours parties. She needed invitations to their summer homes on Capri or to go skiing with them in Gstaad. In turn, they needed
Style’s
support. The first ten to twelve pages of each issue were reserved for the biggest brands – Gucci, Dior, Chanel, Vuitton, Cartier and YSL. Their adverts appeared before anyone else’s. It was all an intricate game of seduction and withdrawal – you had to be available, but not
too
available – and there was no one more practised at it than Rosie Trevelyan. Watch and learn, Tash whispered to herself as they finally collected their coats and bags and headed out into the night.

A fleet of cars was parked kerbside; she instinctively waited for the last one. She saw from the way Rosie turned briefly to nod at her, that she’d done the right thing. It was odd, she mused, as the driver pulled away and they headed towards the museum. She and Rosie had barely exchanged ten words on the flight over from London. Rosie had accepted a glass of champagne, pulled on one of those funny sleeping masks and gone straight to sleep. At the bar at the Four Seasons she’d ignored Tash once the brief introductions had been made. Yet, for all that, Tash and Rosie somehow understood one another. Just as it had been with Embeth Harburg and with Lady Davenport, Tash felt. Something valuable was being offered; if she wasn’t quite aware of it now, she understood intuitively, she soon would be.

ANNICK
Paris, France

Two days later, after a terrible train journey to Paris where she half-expected to be stopped at any second, Annick sat in the living room of the flat on rue Malville with her aunt, listening to the news broadcast in grim concentration. Neither woman spoke. Annick’s knuckles were white where she gripped the armrest. Finally, after what seemed like hours, the presenter’s voice died away.

Aunt Libertine sighed and got up heavily from the sofa. She shuffled into the kitchen, leaving Annick alone. It was three days since she’d arrived and they were expecting yet another guest. Every flight that landed at Charles de Gaulle from Lomé brought with it fresh people and news. The French media gave only the scantiest details. It was from the guests who arrived in the flat every hour that they began to piece together the events of that terrible day.

Claude Touré arrived a few minutes later and was able to fill them in. He’d been one of Sylvan’s closest friends. It was a
coup d’état
, he told them wearily, yet another revolt by a group of junior army officers, much like the one that had restored her father to power. It had begun in the early hours of the morning. A small group had stormed the broadcasting station and the airport, seizing control from the overwhelmed guards. The element of surprise clearly worked; within an hour, all of the country’s communications centres were in the young soldiers’ hands. The surprise of it was that no one yet knew. The parade was due to begin at eight a.m. By seven, the streets were already lined, crowds gathering to cheer on the president and his glamorous wife. At the central
Place de l’Indépendence
, where the celebrations were due to reach their climax, the canopied dais was already erected along with rows of the ubiquitous white plastic chairs that are a staple of African ceremonial life. The entire diplomatic community had turned out for the ceremony along with military top brass, important business leaders . . . everyone who was anyone in Togolese society. But, Touré said, his voice cracking with exhaustion, the signs were already there. The mood in the country was tense. Just weeks before, there’d been a brutal crackdown of striking workers at a factory in Kpalimé, north of Lomé. Twelve were killed. By soldiers acting under direct orders from the president, it was rumoured. And then there was the case of the two journalists, one of them here in France, murdered, it was said, again on direct orders of the president. Tragic, tragic.

Annick listened to him in bewilderment. ‘Wh-what journalists? Wh . . . when?’ She glanced nervously at her aunt; Aunt Libertine’s gaze slid away.

Touré seemed not to hear. He was lost in his own description of events. The open-top Rolls Royce bearing the president and the first lady turned slowly down Independence Avenue, moving towards the
Place
. They waved at the crowds as they did every year; Anouschka was wearing a brilliant blue headdress. He saw it move from side to side as she waved to the crowds.

‘There was a helicopter; it circled above our heads, drowning everything out. We didn’t know then that the rebels were controlling it. The car came up the road, very slowly – everyone was waving. Some of the women, you know, the market vendors, they were dressed in their traditional cloth with Sylvan’s picture printed in the middle. It was a bit strange, seeing his face like that . . . on their stomachs, their breasts, their backsides. Someone commented – I think it was one of the European ambassadors – he was sitting behind us. I don’t remember exactly what he said. There were many ambassadors – France, Germany, Spain. I don’t know about the British – so maybe they were there; maybe not.

‘And the crowd was very good. Every few minutes, somebody would shout, “Vive le Président!” And everybody would shout . . . you know the way our women are. They were making that sound, the one they make at funerals and weddings. It was crazy. We found out later that those in the crowd shouting “Vive le Président!” were actually the agitators. They’d been hired by the soldiers . . . the ones who were behind it. I saw the car coming towards us and the shouting and screaming got louder. There was all of a sudden a lot of gunfire and there was a brass band playing a little further up the road and the soldiers were all lined up for inspection so it was hard to tell if it was intentional, you know, part of the parade. It was a volley . . .
papapapapa
. Back and forth. It was some sort of drill parade, that’s what we thought the gunfire was, at first. But those people who were shouting, suddenly their shouts turned into screams. That’s when we thought there was something strange going on.

‘I saw the ambassadors, the ones who were sitting behind us – they got up, and someone shouted something . . . “watch out!” or “look!” something like that. And then I saw a soldier take aim, pointing towards the car. It was all so confusing. Some of the soldiers in the parade broke ranks and started running towards the car. One of them was shot – the colonel who was leading the band turned round and saw him and he just pulled out his pistol. Just like that. That’s when the first grenade went off. It was so loud. Jesus! The whole place was heaving. And the helicopter overhead. It came very low over our heads so there was a lot of confusion. Then we heard a second grenade and the car stopped. One shot.
Bang!
I saw it with my own eyes. It hit him on the side of the head. Clean, just like that. He fell forwards, you see, towards the floor of the car, and that’s when I saw that your mother was already down.’

Annick listened to Touré with the stunned detachment of someone hearing a story told of others. The tears that had flowed almost non-stop since she’d left London now refused to come. She felt numb. When he finally stopped talking, she heard someone panting, a horrible hoarse sound. After a moment, she realised it was
her
. She got up quickly, embarrassed, and went into the kitchen. She poured herself a glass of water from the tap. She drank slowly, the cool liquid filling her mouth, her throat. She was thirsty; she was alive. They were not. Now what?

‘Well, you must stay here.’ Aunt Libertine looked at her after Touré had gone. ‘You’d better stay in Paris. They’ll have taken the house in London already, the bastards. Were you, er . . . were you able to bring any money with you?’

Annick shook her head. ‘No. Nothing. All the accounts have been frozen.’

‘
Merde
.’ Aunt Libertine’s face fell. ‘But you have a profession, no? You’re a lawyer?’

Annick nodded. ‘But I studied in England. I don’t know what it will be like here. Will they accept my qualifications?’ She looked anxiously at her aunt.

Aunt Libertine shrugged. ‘
Merde
,’ she said again. She shook her head slowly, sighing heavily. She was the youngest of Crístiano Betancourt’s children with his third or fourth wife – Annick couldn’t remember – a half-sister to Sylvan. Annick scarcely knew her. She’d spent an Easter holiday with her once when Anouschka failed to show up and she’d visited them in London a couple of times at home.
Home
. The word seemed almost surreal. Where was home now?

‘Well, you just have to try.’ Aunt Libertine got up heavily from the table. ‘You can stay here for a while. Until you find your feet. It’s small, but . . . what can we do? You’ll sleep in the bedroom down the hallway and we’ll have to share the bathroom. Have you eaten?’

Annick shook her head. The thought of food was repugnant to her. ‘No. I . . . I’m fine,’ she stammered.

‘You should eat. You’re a big girl. You need to eat. There’s some rice and stew in the oven.’ She paused, looking down at her. ‘It won’t bring them back, you know. I don’t mean to be harsh but it’s true. It’s just the way things are with the Betancourts. It’s always been like this; it always will be. It’s what happens, always.’ She shrugged with an air of indescribable finality.

‘Wh . . . what do you mean?’ Annick stammered. ‘Why? Why does it always happen?’

Aunt Libertine looked at her oddly. ‘How else could it be?’

‘I don’t know what you mean,’ Annick said uncertainly.

Aunt Libertine made a small sound of impatience. ‘It’s because of
this
,’ she said, rubbing her hand along her forearm. It was a gesture Annick dimly remembered seeing other relatives make. ‘Yes, it’s because of this . . . our colour. And our name. Betancourt. That was your great-great grandfather’s name: Epiphanio Betancourt. He came to Africa in, oh, in 1840, I think it was. After the slave revolts. That was the beginning of it. Thirty families made the crossing – the Olympios, the Baétas, the da Souzas . . . you know the names. All those families. And they married each other . . . this one with that, this one’s daughter promised to that one’s son, this one’s nephew to that one’s niece. That’s the way they kept us apart.’

‘Apart? Apart from what?’

Again Aunt Libertine looked surprised. ‘From the Africans, of course. That’s how we’ve kept this.’ She made the same gesture yet again, rubbing her finger back and forth across the surface of her coffee-coloured skin.