Little White Lies (46 page)

The door opened suddenly. It was Tash.

‘You’re still in your dressing gown! I told you to try everything on!’

‘I . . . I was going to,’ Annick stammered, half guiltily. ‘I just didn’t know where to start!’ She looked at the clock on the mantelpiece. ‘It’s only three. How come you’re back so early?’

Tash grinned at her. ‘That’s the
only
perk of being your own boss, you know,’ she said happily, shrugging off her coat. She picked up the pink cardigan Annick had discarded. ‘Isn’t this just
divine
? Feel that . . . soft as a blooming baby’s bottom. Not that I’d know what
that
feels like,’ she added, chuckling to herself. ‘Nice, but a bit too girly, don’t you think? You need something more assertive.’

‘Why? What for?’

‘For your interviews, of course.’

‘Interviews?’ Annick asked, bewildered. Everything was happening so fast.

‘Job interviews, darling. We’ll have you back at the bar within a fortnight, you’ll see.’

‘I . . . I was never
at
the bar, Tash,’ Annick said nervously. ‘I was a solicitor, not a barrister.’

‘Bar, courtroom . . . wherever. We’ve got to get you back in the saddle, Annie. Trust me. When everything else is falling around your ears, work’s the only thing you can trust. The
only
thing.’

‘But where would I start?’

‘At the Law Society, of course,’ Tash said, looking up, an expression of astonishment on her face. ‘Annick, I
know
it’s been hard, darling, but you’ve got to get out there. You’ve got to put a fucking huge smile on your face, put your best foot forward and start climbing your way back up.
That’s
the way you’ll make things happen. You’ve got to get back on top, Annie. You can
do
it. I know you can.’

Annick swallowed. Deep down, she knew Tash was right. She’d been knocked off course and she’d fallen further than she’d ever imagined possible. But she couldn’t keep on falling. She had to stop. She had to get up, just as Tash said. She looked around at the flat, the piles of clothes and the shoes, still in their boxes, the big, fat leather handbags and all the jewellery that Tash had gone out of her way to choose for her. A ripple of admiration tinged with fear ran through her. She’d always been in awe of Tash. She’d been the poorer of the three of them, unable to afford the things that she and Rebecca took for granted – holidays, a nice home, parents you didn’t have to worry about – and yet she’d have sooner died than have anyone feel sorry for her. Jesus, if Tash could forge her own way in the world with all the disadvantages she’d had, why the hell couldn’t
she
?

‘Pass me that one,’ she said firmly, pointing to a navy, knee-length dress with gently billowing sleeves.

‘Roland Mouret,’ Tash said, a satisfied smile creeping up on her face. ‘Isn’t he just the
best?
Makes a girl look like a star, even if she doesn’t feel like one.’

‘And you don’t think I look too fat?’ Annick said anxiously, tugging down the hem of the skirt.

Tash shook her head. ‘Voluptuous, dearest, not fat. Though you have put on a pound or two,’ she added, cocking her head to one side. ‘Suits you, though. And there’s not many girls I’d say
that
to, I can tell you.’

Annick turned to look at herself in the mirror. She was unrecognisable, even to herself. The dowdy, overweight receptionist who’d manned the desk at Hôtel du Jardin for the past five years was gone. ‘Tash, I haven’t seen this many clothes in five years,’ she murmured, looking past Tash to where mountains of clothes still lay scattered on the counterpane.

‘Many more to come, darling, many more. This is what I do, remember?’

Annick nodded slowly. She wasn’t
quite
who she had been. She’d lost the sultry indolence of her teenage years and there was a new hardness and wariness in her eyes that had never been there before. But the haunted, beaten look that she’d grown accustomed to seeing every time she looked in the mirror was gone.

‘Put these on,’ Tash commanded, handing her a pair of black patent Jimmy Choos. ‘See? See what those do to your legs?’

Annick nodded. ‘How much are they?’ she whispered fearfully.

‘Enough to put the spring back into your step and that’s enough for me,’ Tash grinned. ‘Look,’ she continued, suddenly serious, seeing the look of panic on Annick’s face. ‘Don’t worry about what all this cost. I haven’t got anyone to spend my money on. What’s the point of making it all if there’s no one to spend it on?’

‘What about your mum?’

Tash shrugged impatiently. ‘Oh, she’s getting plenty of it, don’t worry. Besides, she spends most of it on booze. And, speaking of which,’ she reached into her giant soft leather bag and pulled out a bottle. ‘Be a darling and get us two glasses, won’t you?’

‘Where from?’

Tash rolled her eyes. ‘The kitchen, idiot. Where else?’

‘Oh.’ It was her second day in the flat and she’d yet to do more than go to the loo. ‘Right. Back in a sec.’

‘Let’s polish this off and then I’d better get back to work.’ She prised the cork off the already-opened bottle of champagne. ‘Right . . . let’s get started. I want to see what you’re going to wear on that all-important first interview. Sounds good, doesn’t it? The
All
-Important First Interview. I’d better make a note of that before I forget. It’d make a good feature.’ She pulled a notebook from her bag. ‘Okay, knock yourself out, darling.’ She settled herself more comfortably on the bed, poured herself another glass and grinned at Annick. ‘Get on with it, love. I haven’t got all day.’

It took them less than two hours to sort out a week’s worth of interview outfits. Tash was ruthless. Sipping her glass of champagne, she barked out her orders.
Here, try this. No, take that off. Shoes are good, awful belt. Skirt should be longer. Different colour. You need earrings with that. No, not those ones. Try these. Yeah, that’s better. You look like a hooker in those
. She walked round Annick as though she were a model waiting nervously backstage before going out on the catwalk. By five, when the last drop of champagne had been drunk and the light outside was fading, she pronounced herself satisfied.

‘If you’re not hired as soon as you walk through the door I’ll eat my hat. No, yours. Hmm. I rather like that hat . . . who’s it by?’ She left in a hail of kisses and promises to call before midnight and disappeared in a black cab. She had a meeting at the other end of Oxford Street and she’d be damned if she was ‘going to shove and push my way through all those fucking tourists. Bye bye, darling. Let’s have a drink later on.’

Annick watched her clamber into the cab, then she turned around and walked slowly back up the thickly carpeted stairs to her flat. She closed the door, leaning against it for support, breathing deeply. She walked into the bedroom and slid back the wardrobe door. She reached for the first item on the rack. It was a sand-coloured wool-crépe blazer with matching, wide-legged trousers. She rubbed the luxuriously soft fabric between her fingers. Tash had picked out two silk shirts – one in cream, the other in a soft baby-blue. With a pair of high-heeled dark-brown snakeskin pumps and a brown handbag, she looked every inch the stylish solicitor Tash seemed to think she was – or ought to be. She walked across the room, entranced by her own image in the mirror. Was that really
her
?

The phone rang suddenly, shattering the silence. She stared at it for a moment, then, her heart beating fast, she picked it up. For a brief, mad second, she thought it might be Yves.

‘Annie? It’s me.’

It was Rebecca. She felt a quick thrill of relief, followed immediately by a stab of guilt. ‘Oh. I wasn’t sure . . . I didn’t know who it would be.’

‘Well, who else would it be?’ Rebecca chuckled. ‘Unless there’s someone in Paris you’re not telling us about?’

‘No, no . . . of course not.’

‘What’re you doing? Right now, I mean?’

‘Me? Nothing. Tash just left. She brought all this stuff . . . all these brand-new outfits, shoes, bags . . . you should see my wardrobe. I’ve never seen so many clothes in my life.’

‘Are you hungry? Shall we go out to dinner, just you and me? I phoned Tash and she’s tied up in a dinner meeting and Julian’s out of town. I’ll come over and get you. We can go somewhere near you, if you like?’

‘Um. The thing is, Rebecca . . . I’d love to, but . . .’ She stopped, embarrassed.

‘What?’

‘I . . . I haven’t any money, Rebecca. I . . . everything happened so fast and—’

‘Annick, if I hear you mention the word “money” again, I swear I’m going to hit you. Just get dressed. I’ll be there in half an hour.’

‘I . . .’ But it was too late. Rebecca had already put the phone down. Annick stood where she was, blinking back yet another round of tears.

JULIAN
Zurich

He pushed back the heavy sliding door, belted the thick dressing gown around his waist tightly and stepped out into the pearly morning light. The air was cold and sharp. It struck his face, burning slightly in his nostrils as he breathed in. It was the end of November, late autumn back home in London, but winter already in the middle of the continent. Below him lay the city, all dark spires, streets stitched together with Christmas lights. He could just make out the dark red tiles of the Rathaus, a couple of blocks away. Beyond the jagged line of buildings was the river. He felt light-footed and his head was clear – surprising, given that he’d hardly slept. He walked over to the edge of the balcony and placed his hands carefully on the freezing wrought iron, rocking gently back and forward, flexing his muscles, stepping into the beauty of the city as it rose from its wintery night-time slumber. The ground rumbled faintly underneath his feet; a tram slowly swam into view. A flock of birds took off suddenly from one of the buildings opposite – a dark, ragged triangle in flight across the sky.

His mind drifted from the scene in front of him to the dinner the night before. He’d taken the group to one of his favourite restaurants, the Alden Gourmet, on Splügenstrasse, a five-minute walk from the bank where they’d held their meetings. They were a tight team. There was Barry from New York; Jeff from London, Frédéric de Chambord from Lichtenstein, the South African Luc Breil and then the two men from Dubai – Mohammed Al-Rasool and Saleh Mansour. And last, but by no means least, there was Miranda. Ah, Miranda.

He allowed himself the smallest of smiles as he stood there contemplating the city at dawn. He’d known Miranda Grayling for almost twenty years and never once, in all that time, had he ever dreamed he’d be relying on her to help him pave his way through a deal, least of all a deal of this magnitude. Miranda Grayling – or Miranda Smith, as she was known back then – was Doug Grayling’s PA. Grayling, a transplanted American, had started out at Merrill Lynch, then moved to Bank of America’s London branch, then spent a couple of years at Goldman’s before being hired at Harburg’s, against old Lionel’s wishes. You couldn’t trust a man who’d jumped ship so many times, Lionel was often heard to grumble. But Harburg’s was interested in America, also against Lionel’s instincts, and Doug Grayling had apparently persuaded the board that he was just the man for the job. He moved across in a blaze of self-publicity that set the old man’s teeth on edge but the younger board members were keen. There were some who complained that Lionel was losing it, even back then, but not Julian. Lionel’s body was failing him but his mind was still razor-sharp. He’d seen the greed in Grayling long before everyone else did. Julian, like everyone else, now only saw Lionel intermittently at Harburg Hall. In a wheelchair now, of course, and almost completely deaf. But his eyes missed nothing. Very little escaped the old man’s attention. Julian swallowed uncomfortably at the thought.

A sudden shaft of sunlight pierced through the thick, woolly clouds and for a moment, hit the golden spires of the Rathaus, a brilliant golden arrow. He brought up his hand to shield his eyes from the glare, then it slid off and the city was cloaked again in milky greyness. He let out the breath he’d been holding, slowly, and turned. He’d forgotten to close the thick, velvet curtains when he came in last night. They were still bunched to one side and the sheer muslin panel that lay between the velvet and the glass sliding door was billowing outwards, like a sail. He looked beyond the glass to the rumpled surface of the bed. Dented pillows, bunched-up sheets, a pair of men’s trousers and the flung-aside arm of his shirt . . . and the firm, toned and pale leg of his night-time companion. Miranda Grayling, née Smith. She’d kept Grayling after the divorce. Sounded better, she claimed.

Her tousled blonde hair made a splendid contrast with the dark-blue silk sheets. Now, as then, she slept naked, the only difference being that the flesh he’d held, touched and tasted pretty much all through the night was firmer now, expensively anointed and pale as mother-of-pearl. Back then when she’d been one of the many pretty young secretaries who flitted in and out of the various offices at Harburg’s, she’d been ever so slightly chubby, slightly less blonde than she was now and a whole lot poorer. Grayling had given her a taste for the finer things in life. In the event, her divorce settlement had given her capital. Of all the things that could be said about Miranda, ‘stupid’ wasn’t one of them. ‘Greedy’, ‘scheming’, ‘ambitious’, even ‘ruthless’, yes, but not ‘stupid’. She’d parlayed her experience of being a banker’s wife into an impressive portfolio that included property, smart investments and, most interesting of all, a little black notebook (metaphorically speaking, of course . . . it was rumoured she took her laptop to bed) with more names and phone numbers than anyone else in town.

Julian silently slid back the door, closing it firmly behind him. He drew the curtains, throwing the room back into shrouded darkness. Miranda slept like a man, her head flung backwards, arms outspread. She snored steadily, lightly. He remembered that about her too. He dropped his dressing gown, looked down at his penis and was gratified to see it thickening already. He walked around to her side of the bed, drew back the covers and looked down at her. He was instantly hard.