Little White Lies (66 page)

‘And these? Don’t you just love these?’ The interior designer was busy stroking the silk backing on one of the dining-room chairs. ‘Seventeenth century, Scottish. It took us an
age
to find them.’

And a small fortune
, Tash thought to herself quickly. ‘They’re beautiful,’ she murmured. ‘Just beautiful.’ A wave of impatience swept through her. Now that it was finally done, she wanted to be alone. She turned to Janine and the interior designer whose name she’d already forgotten. ‘Look, if you don’t mind,’ she said briskly, ‘I’ve had an awfully long day. It’s nearly ten p.m. my time. I’ve got a couple of days before my guests arrive. I’m just going to settle in, get a feel for the place, that sort of thing. I’ll be in touch again in the morning.’

Both Janine and the interior designer were far too accustomed to the ways of the rich and famous to make even the slightest protest. With murmurs of ‘of course’ and ‘you must be
exhausted
’, they quickly gathered their possessions, made the few last-minute adjustments to picture frames and bouquets of flowers and exited in a stream of air kisses and tyres on gravel. Her own driver, having emptied the car of her possessions, also took his leave.

For the first time in weeks – perhaps even months – she was truly alone. She stood in the doorway, looking out over the empty driveway and suddenly realised she was crying. Idiot, she chastised herself softly under her breath. You’re supposed to laugh, not cry. Crack open a bottle. At the thought of champagne, she brightened. Janine would have left a bottle in the fridge. She slipped her hand in her pocket and took out her BlackBerry. More messages, of course, but none from Adam. She tightened her lips and put it away. Damn him. So bloody typical – here she was, more than three thousand miles away, standing in the doorway of their dream home and he was sulking and unreachable. The muffled roar of the sea came to her faintly, like a voice from another planet, another age. London seemed so terribly far away, and not just in the geographical sense. The gleaming water, glimpsed from over the top of the swaying grasses, was a blur of dazzling foamy surfaces. To her right, leading away from the white-pebbled driveway, was a small pathway that led directly to the beach. She roused herself. It was almost four in the afternoon; what better way to round off her first day on the island than at the water’s edge, a glass of champagne in hand?

She turned and walked through the house to the vast, white-tiled kitchen with its stainless steel appliances and refrigerators the size of whole cupboards. Janine had not only provided two giant magnums of champagne – Krug, she noticed approvingly – but a small platter of olives, tiny artichoke hearts swimming in olive oil and a thick slice of crumbling Parmesan cheese. Her mouth watered suddenly; she’d eaten nothing since breakfast. She picked up the bottle by the neck, collected a flute from the cupboard above the cooker and, balancing everything rather precariously, opened the back door and followed the narrow path that led to Ripley Cove.

The protected strip of white sand that fringed the cove was the perfect place to sit in absolute silence, nothing between her and the faint, muffled roar of the sea that was held at bay by the narrow finger of land that separated the two beaches. She squatted down rather awkwardly – no one to see her – and settled herself into the sand that still held the day’s warmth. She carefully put the plate of olives and cheese to one side, spreading her jacket out on the sand and kicking off her shoes. The sand was wonderfully warm and soft against her bare feet. She burrowed her toes in it, delighting in the simple, pleasurable sensation. She eased the champagne cork out of its constricting mouth and poured herself a glass, drinking greedily before the bubbles had subsided. The azure sea moved slowly, majestically, breaking in slow, drawn-out rolls against the sand, not fifty yards from where she sat. Beyond the fingerspit of sand, the tide was out, black rocks flattened and exposed by the retreating water. Behind her, providing shade and hiding the neighbouring property, was a small but thick clump of trees in the full throes of early summer. The air was quiet and still. Tash lay back against her jacket, now covered in fine blond sand. Warmth and light faintly penetrated the thin skin of her eyelids. She began to doze, lulled by the sound of the sea, the wind in the trees behind her, the snug warmth of an early summer afternoon.

When she woke and sat up to pour herself another glass, the suffused light created a distortion of distance so that the lone figure of a bird, picking its way delicately across the wet sand in front of her, seemed miles and miles off, far beyond her reach.

ANNICK

All the way from London, from the moment the chauffeur-driven car picked them up outside their South London flat and deposited them at the entrance to Terminal Five, to the moment they walked, dazedly, through the exit doors at Logan International Airport only to be met by another driver, in an almost identical car, Annick felt as though she were dreaming. That she’d wake up any second and find herself pressed, cheek-to-cheek, against a fellow commuter on her way into the office at 8.07 a.m. on a normal, routine Monday morning. That the sight and feel of Didier scrambling excitedly from her seat to Yves’, entranced by the way the seats slid forward until they were flat and by the small television screens and the smiling ladies in smart blue uniforms who behaved as though his every wish was simply their command, wasn’t real. They would be the first to arrive. Rebecca, Julian and the kids would land the following morning and the same service would be extended to them. Tash wouldn’t hear of anyone paying for anything. ‘Absolutely not. And that’s the end of it. Not another word.’ Annick and Yves smiled at each other. Whilst a first-class ticket to Boston and a ten-day holiday on Martha’s Vineyard might well be within Rebecca’s reach, it certainly wasn’t within theirs. But Tash was adamant. ‘It’s my own birthday present – hell, make that Christmas-
and
-birthday present – and that’s all there is to it.’

Boston, gritty and grey, slid past the tinted windows in an excited blur. Didier slept, woke up, gazed out of the window and then fell back asleep again. For the first time in a long while, Yves’ hand rested slackly, warmly, against her thigh. Annick had never been to America before and was utterly absorbed by the unfolding scenery in front of them, at once familiar to her from countless televisions shows and films, and at once strange and remote. She couldn’t get over the sheer size of the roads – lanes wide enough to fit three cars, not one! Yves laughed indulgently at her observations. Frances was right; within hours of leaving London behind, a new, almost forgotten warmth had re-emerged between them. The wellspring of hope that had been buried and dampened down for so long began to cautiously rise in her again. There would be an easy explanation for it all. There had to be. Looking at him now, his gaze preoccupied by whatever lay beyond the car window, she felt a sudden surge of love, mingled with gratitude, towards Tash, Frances, Rebecca . . . everyone.

‘Look!’ Yves’ grip on her leg tightened suddenly. ‘There’s the bridge.’

She followed his finger. The outline of the island swam into view, a dusky line of land that rose out of the shimmering blue. A small plane, far in the distance, rose slowly out of the greenery, dipping gently this way and that as it climbed beyond the tree line and began to head towards the puffy white cloud mass on the horizon. Behind it she could see an unbroken line of dunes, shifting sand held together by long grasses that, even from the road, brushed the horizon in long, slow caresses. A great flock of seagulls rose majestically out of the water, flying directly out of the wet light and into the sun. She gripped Yves’ hand, covering it with her own.

‘Have you
seen
some of these houses?’ Yves pointed to the pretty New England clapboard houses that were beginning to emerge out of the trees.

Annick laughed again. ‘You wait until you see Tash’s place. I’ve only seen pictures, mind you. I can’t wait. I still can’t get over it, can you? I mean, all this is Tash’s?’

Yves smiled and shook his head. ‘I’ve long since stopped being surprised where you three are concerned. Nothing surprises me anymore.’

‘What d’you mean?’ Annick laughed in protest.

Yves shrugged. ‘Nothing,’ he murmured, turning to look out of the window again. ‘Everything. You’re hardly run-of-the-mill, Annick.’

There was a tenderness in his voice that had been absent from it for a long time, Annick realised. ‘You neither,’ she said quietly, hoping her voice was steady. She was filled with a sudden impatience, not just to reach Tash’s magical house, but also to begin the long, painful and yet joyous process of repairing the rift that had opened up between them, years ago.

‘You’re here! At last!’ Tash was standing in the doorway as the driver neatly brought the car to a halt a few yards from the white front door with its oversized brass knocker and giant brass numerals. ‘I thought you’d never get here!’ she cried, springing forward as soon as the car stopped.

Didier was out of the car first, tumbling out with all the uncoiled energy of a two-and-a-half-year-old who’d been kept cooped up for far longer than his constitution would allow. ‘Didi! Careful! Don’t run,
chérie
. . . walk!’ The cry was lost on him as he tore past Tash and burst into the house.

‘Go on,’ Yves laughed, ‘yes, go right inside. Don’t wait to be asked.’ They all laughed. He kissed Tash on both cheeks, holding her by the elbows and giving her a warm squeeze. ‘What a journey . . . and what a house, Tash. It’s stunning. Everything I’d imagined it to be . . . more, to be honest.’

Tash was beaming. The colour was up in her face. It still took Annick a while to get used to the new, carefully sculpted features that she only just recognised as belonging to her best friend. She smiled a lot these days. It was as if the new Tash was simply a prettier, sunnier, more winning version of the old one. She would never be the beauty Rebecca was, or have the same exotic sultriness that could still be seen in Annick’s face by everyone except Annick herself, but Tash was no longer the butt of all fashion jokes. She now looked like who she was – an exceptionally successful, driven, capable woman in her late thirties who’d finally grown into her features. Or who’d
bought
herself a new set of features, others, less charitable than her friends, were wont to say. It mattered little; she now had the looks to match the kind of person she’d always been. Annick loved her unconditionally.

‘You look beautiful,’ she whispered in Tash’s ear as they hugged. She meant it. She was dressed in the kind of androgynous white linen shift that suited her long, lean shape. With a high Mao collar, thick silver earrings and flat white Superga plimsolls, she looked every inch a Martha’s Vineyard resident – tall, tanned, lithe, with minimal make-up and no fuss. Her one touch of glamour – deep red, almost black, short nails – lifted her whole appearance into the realm of the glamorous holidaymaker, welcoming friends and family to her sumptuous home. The image was a seductive one; Annick found herself being drawn warmly and voluptuously into it.

Standing just inside the doorway was a young girl who bent down to Didier’s level and welcomed him very formally but with a wide grin. She was the au pair. Clea was Irish; her voice had a soft musical lilt to it that made you want to listen closely. ‘Why don’t you come with me, little man. I’ll show you where we’re all going to sleep. Upstairs, right at the top of the house with all your cousins. Let’s see who gets there first.’ Without so much as a backward glance, Didier went off with her, anxious to show this new friend that he wasn’t about to be left behind. The three adults looked on indulgently.

‘Come on,’ Tash tucked an arm into Annick’s, leading them both into one of what seemed to be several sitting rooms on the ground floor. The room was stunning: pale-grey walls, a highly polished wooden floor against which the light bounced and was reflected back up towards the ceiling. No expense had been spared. Tash’s exquisite taste in all things was everywhere. There were plump white sofas for lounging in, beautifully upholstered chairs to admire, a fireplace in one corner, dramatic photographs on the walls and, best of all, an almost uninterrupted view of the gardens and the water beyond. Annick’s mouth dropped open. On the polished mahogany coffee table were several silver trays bursting with food and drink. It was almost too much to take in. Even Yves seemed lost for words.

‘When did you do all this?’ he asked finally, looking around him in awe.

Tash couldn’t possibly have looked happier. ‘Oh,
I
didn’t do it. A whole
team’s
been working on this. D’you like it?’ At that moment Annick wanted only to hug her. It was so typically Tash. Her pleasure lay not in the fact that the house was beautiful, but in the fact that she was sharing it with them. She was catapulted backwards in time to the moment she and her friend stood in Tash’s suite at the hotel in Paris. Then, as now, her generosity had been overwhelming. She’d looked at Tash, too embarrassed to do anything other than stand by numbly, as Tash directed and organised the events that would lead her out of the desperate hole into which she’d fallen, and into a new life. It was a moment Annick would always remember. At that moment, she saw very clearly what Tash wanted from her. Not an appreciation of her achievements, or the wealth she’d managed to accumulate. Anyone could do
that
, Tash seemed to be saying. She wanted something more, some deeper understanding of what life might be all about – love, generosity, care. Tash
cared
about them, deeply, and asked almost nothing in return, just that Annick and Rebecca see it, be witness to the person she’d chosen to become. It had taken Annick a while to see it in her, and understand it, because it was strange to her. She’d always had people to care about, and who cared for her. Tash was different. She quickly turned her head. She didn’t want them to see just how deeply Tash had touched her.

ANNICK/REBECCA/TASH