Lovers and Liars Trilogy

  ‘I don’t even know why I’m doing this,’ she said snappishly.

  ‘You’re just nervous. You’re having dinner with this very handsome, sexy man. You’re about to get lucky. Relax.’

  ‘Handsome? Sexy? Who is this?’

  ‘Are you blind?’ Pixie giggled. ‘One glance from those blue eyes and my nipples go hard…He’s delicious.’

  ‘He’s nice,’ Lindsay corrected. ‘Kind, gentlemanly, rather old-fashioned…’

  ‘He won’t be old-fashioned in bed. I can always tell. Ah well, you older women get all the luck…’

  ‘I don’t even want to go out.’ Lindsay sighed. ‘I want to stay in, eat chocolates and lie in bed. What’s in that hair stuff anyway? It smells weird.’

  ‘Magic’ Pixie sniffed. ‘Yams, actually. And don’t worry, the smell wears off after a bit. It’s absolutely the latest thing. Eco-friendly, one hundred per cent pure natural ingredients, and it attacks the free radicals…’

  ‘I have free radicals in my hair?’

  ‘At your age, Lindsay, you have free radicals lurking everywhere. Face facts.’

  Lindsay faced them. She could sense the free radicals crawling around. They had long given up on such minor targets as her complexion, she thought; they were now infesting her head and heart; they were swimming up and down in her blood.

  ‘Turn your head this way…’ Pixie examined her. ‘Oh yes,—excellent. I’m aiming at a soignée look, très 1930s debutante, with Berlin nightclub undertones. Think Dietrich, then think Nancy Mitford. I want sultry and debonair…’

  ‘I’ve never looked sultry in my life, and I’ve never felt less debonair. Get a move on, Pixie, I’m fed up with this. My feet feel sticky…’

  ‘They’re meant to feel sticky. It’s the papaya juice in that foot-spray. Just wait awhile—you’ll feel you’re walking on air…Hey, your skin is really good, you know that? You on HRT by any chance?’

  ‘Will you give me a break, Pixie? Pay attention: no, I’m not. And the menopause is a long, long, long way off.’

  ‘Only asking. I didn’t really think you were. There’s no need to be so sensitive.’

  Pixie made a face at her and continued her ministrations. Lindsay sank deeper into the slough of despondency. The menopause, with luck, should be a decade away; on the other hand, as women’s magazines never ceased to remind her, it could strike at any time, for like all her sex, she was at the mercy of hormones. Hormones, chemicals, free radicals; why, within her own body a nasty civil war, a guerrilla war was taking place. Pixie, of course, believed that war could be won—but then Pixie was such a believer. She believed in tofu and aerobics and mantras and collagen injections and miracle creams that cost 200 dollars for a very small jar. She believed in the beauty industry, where science and ju-ju interlinked, and she believed in clothes. In the gospel according to Pixie, there were very few problems in life that could not be solved by intelligent shopping, and spiritual fulfilment could be bought for the price of a new dress.

  Pixie’s religion, as Lindsay was aware, had once been her own. If she had never been quite such a born-again evangelist as Pixie was, she too had bowed down before fashion and worshipped at the high altar of couture. Now, finally, finally, she could admit at long last that she had lapsed. Farewell false gods, Lindsay thought, feeling virtuous.

  Pixie stepped back, her task completed, and Lindsay turned to the mirror, examining her handiwork. The new hairstyle, more intricate than her usual one, was surprisingly effective. Lindsay’s gloom diminished.

  ‘You know I think that papaya stuff is actually working?’ she said. ‘I feel quite refreshed.’

  ‘Sure you do. Now we have to find you something to wear.’

  Pixie moved off to the closets and began rummaging about. Lindsay stretched and examined her ringless hands, the nails of which Pixie had painted a curious but interesting purplish-black. How revealing that Pixie should consider Colin Lascelles handsome, she thought; could she be right? She must look at him more carefully tonight.

  ‘Tell me, Pixie,’ she said, looking at her with affection, ‘will you ever get married, d’you think?’

  Pixie was twenty-one. ‘No way,’ she said.

  ‘What about children? You’d like children one day, I expect.’

  ‘Maybe. But only if I’m rich enough. Having kids finished my mother. That’s not going to happen to me.’

  ‘And what about love, Pixie—how d’you feel about that?’

  Pixie straightened up with a hiss; she held up her two index fingers in the shape of a cross, as if warding off a vampire.

  ‘Bad magic,’ she said.

  Lindsay was impressed. She did not altogether agree, but she was impressed. Pixie, one of six children, born in Liverpool and brought up in some hardship, had already come a long way. Lindsay, who had given her a start five years before, intended to help her go further. Accordingly, when she resigned, she had advised Max very strongly to promote Pixie to Fashion Editor. Max, who did not consort with lowly fashion assistants, but who had glimpsed Pixie—she was hard to miss—in the elevators and corridors at the Correspondent, had groaned.

  ‘She has green hair,’ he said.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous, that was years ago. Now she looks like Susie Parker, supermodel circa 1958. You must have seen her—tailored suits, a little hat with a veil, high-heel shoes, stockings with seams, gloves and a Queen Mother handbag

  ‘That was her?’ Max had wavered, then entrenched. ‘She’s a child,’ he said.

  ‘She’s twenty-one. Fashion editors need to be young. Hire her.’

  ‘I’ll think about it,’ said Max.

  Lindsay had continued her promote-Pixie campaign ever since. Before leaving London, she had conceived a cunning plan which, she had been certain, she could slide past Max. She and Pixie would spend roughly a week covering the actual collections, then roughly ten days in New York on fashion shoots. Over Thanksgiving, Lindsay would take some vacation time and Pixie would return to London. During Lindsay’s absence, Pixie could nurse these fashion stories through to press, and Max could see how she progressed.

  Lindsay kept these dates and plans somewhat vague, and was careful to present them to Max late on her last day in London, when he was in the middle of a news crisis.

  ‘Fine, excellent,’ Max had said, when he finally had time to see her. He smiled a small feline smile. ‘In other words, Lindsay, I pay your air fares and your hotel bills at the Pierre for around three weeks, during part of which period you research the American end of your Chanel biography—a biography that has nothing to do with this newspaper. Am I right?’

  Lindsay cursed under her breath. ‘I’m being paid peanuts for this biography,’ she said. ‘I won’t be able to afford air fares. It would only be the odd hour off, Max.’

  ‘No, it wouldn’t. You intend to hole up in some archive and let Pixie handle those New York fashion shoots. Then, when I congratulate you on how good they are, you’re going to inform me that Pixie did them, thus clinching her appointment.’ He sighed. ‘Lindsay, you make a lousy Machiavelli; I can read you like a book. This is out of character; you’re the only journalist I know who doesn’t fiddle her expenses. I’ve always felt you lacked creativity in that respect.’

  ‘I’ll bet Rowland doesn’t fiddle them either.’

  ‘Rowland?’ Max shrugged. ‘Oh, Rowland’s probity wears one out. Ah well, I’m really quite fond of you, I’m feeling charming today. OK. Done.’

  He scribbled his initials, authorizing these plans with a speed that made Lindsay suspicious at once.

  ‘What about Pixie?’ she said. Max’s manner became opaque.

  ‘I’m still thinking about it. I’m consulting. I haven’t ruled out the idea. Not yet…’

  Lindsay had informed him tartly that this was wise, since he knew nothing whatsoever about fashion, whereas she knew a great deal and was always right. Max acquiesced to this pronouncement with his customary grace. Lindsay continued to mull this over, to pl
ot and plan, and had finally decided, in New York, the previous day, to inform Pixie. ‘The job’s yours, Pixie,’ she had said, ‘if you play your cards right.’

  Pixie had blushed beneath her layers of perfect 1958 maquillage; then the story came out. As Lindsay well knew, Pixie said, she had a brilliant career plan. She intended to be editing English Vogue by the time she was thirty, and American Vogue as soon as was feasible after that. Accordingly, half an hour after Lindsay resigned, Pixie had marched upstairs to the sanctum of Max’s offices. There, his trio of stuck-up secretaries had first ignored her, then told her to shift. Pixie had not shifted; she had sat there for two and a half hours until finally, at eight o’clock in the evening, Max had taken pity on her and agreed to see her for three and a half minutes.

  ‘Very Max,’ Lindsay said, thoughtfully, working out the time scheme of these events.

  This was fine, Pixie continued, since she only needed two minutes anyway. Inside the sanctum, she had informed Max that she had earned promotion, that if she didn’t get it she would go to Vogue, who had been chasing her for months, and that if she did get it, she would want to make changes.

  ‘Changes?’ Lindsay said, in a faint voice.

  Pixie had presented Max with a list of these changes, fifteen in number. Max read it, laughed, and offered her a drink. They had then discussed his five children and Pixie’s budgerigar. Pixie had decided that, despite his suit and his posh accent, she could do business with Max. The upshot of all this was that, provided Lindsay did not change her mind, the position of Fashion Editor was within Pixie’s grasp.

  ‘Oh, and I raised him five thousand,’ Pixie added, in a nonchalant voice.

  ‘Five thousand? That bastard. That lying, devious…’

  ‘It was easy, Lindsay. You could have done it any time. You never push hard enough on the money front. Max is a sweetie, a pussy-cat…’

  ‘Yes, with very sharp claws. Make sure he doesn’t claw that five thousand back from your budget, Pixie, because he’ll certainly try…You actually discussed salary?’

  ‘Sure. On a putative basis, of course.’

  Lindsay, by then coming out of shock, had begun to laugh. She laughed at Pixie’s ambition and Max’s poker-game skills, and she laughed at her own vanity most of all. Fond as she was of both Max and Pixie, it had not truly occurred to her that she was dispensable. She had assumed Max would fight to keep her, and that Pixie, with luck, might find her a hard act to follow. Her disillusionment hurt at first. She had been dispensable as a wife, Lindsay thought; now she was dispensable as a mother and as an editor. She felt a flood of self-pity at this realization, which she was wise enough to indulge to the full for an hour or two. Then, gradually, her natural optimism reasserted itself. Such lessons were salutary; the little rehearsals life organized for everyone—in the final analysis, after all, death ensured every one would be dispensable, she told herself.

  Now, watching Pixie sashay back and forth between closets and drawers, selecting a costume for a meeting that, alas, was not the hot date Pixie supposed, it occurred to her that Pixie’s revelations were doubly useful. Not only had they induced a saintly state of forbearance and wisdom, they had also ensured that there was now no going back. The luxury of changing her mind, a luxury Lindsay was aware she indulged in too often, was ruled out. This was good—now the bridges were burned, the Rubicon was crossed. She at once felt a surge of energy and bounced off the bed.

  ‘That red dress,’ she said, ‘that’s what I want to wear—the red dress.’

  Pixie rolled her eyes. ‘Per—leaze,’ she said.

  ‘What’s wrong with it? It’s great. People like it. Rowland McGuire likes it.’

  Pixie thrust the red dress to the back of the closet. She pulled out a black suit, a white silk T-shirt, a pair of stockings, black shoes with kitten heels, and some fake pearls that looked like Chanel fake pearls in a kind light.

  ‘Take the bra off,’ she said. ‘I want subtle. Just the occasional hint of nipple, for Colin’s sake. Don’t argue—trust. And never quote Rowland McGuire on clothes to me. I may lust after Rowland, but he knows nothing about what makes a woman look good. Rowland should concentrate on women’s underwear…’ She paused, smiling. ‘As, of course, one gathers he does…’

  ‘Yes, yes, yes,’ Lindsay said very fast, removing the bra and diving into the T-shirt. She knew Pixie was about to launch herself on the subject of Rowland’s physical charms, alleged sexual prowess and past amatory exploits. This recitative, of which Pixie was fond, and which might or might not be accurate, could continue at Homeric length. Lindsay did not want to hear about Rowland’s putative past amours, and she certainly did not want to hear the details of any present ones. Pixie’s reading, in any case, was useless; she came at the subject of Rowland from the wrong philosophic and moral viewpoint. As far as Pixie was concerned, Lindsay thought crossly, it was a truth universally acknowledged that any man in possession of a woman’s company must be in want of a fuck.

  She closed her ears to Pixie’s lewd commentary and emerged from the T-shirt red-faced.

  ‘So tell me truthfully now,’ Pixie was saying. ‘Am I right? Did you and Rowland ever…’

  ‘What? What?’ Lindsay said. ‘Certainly not. For heaven’s sake…’

  ‘Pity, because it is heaven, by all accounts. I’d have liked to know if it was true…’ She gave a dreamy sigh. ‘Just, like, the best sex ever. Eight times a night.’

  ‘Don’t be so goddamn ridiculous.’ Lindsay began to yank on the stockings. ‘No-one does it eight times a night. Less is more, Pixie. Remember that.’

  ‘If you say so, Lindsay,’ Pixie replied, in the most irritating manner possible. ‘If you say so…’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘Are you telling me the truth? You’re sure you never—not even once?’

  ‘No, I damn well didn’t. Rowland is a colleague. Can we change the subject and change it now, please?’

  ‘OK. OK.’ Pixie looked thoughtful. ‘It’s just—I’ve noticed him looking at you, once or twice, and I could have sworn that…’

  Lindsay put on the skirt, the jacket and the shoes. This took her at least thirty seconds and demonstrated consummate self-control, she felt.

  ‘What could you have sworn?’ she said.

  ‘Nothing, nothing. Put it this way, maybe he was admiring your work, but I got a rather different impression

  ‘Twaddle,’ Lindsay said, with firmness. ‘Tosh. Romantic drivel. When was this?’

  ‘Oh, back in the summer some time…’ Pixie made an airy gesture. ‘You were wearing that cream dress.’

  ‘Really? I’ve always liked that dress.’

  ‘And another occasion—when you were going straight to the theatre with him from work, September some time?’

  ‘I remember vaguely. September the eighth.’

  ‘He helped you on with your coat, and I caught that look on his face…’ Pixie shrugged. ‘I was probably imagining it. You were putting him down as usual, telling him how arrogant he is—that’s why you didn’t notice, I expect.’

  ‘Putting him down?’ Lindsay began, frowning. ‘No, Pixie—I don’t do that…’

  ‘You never stop doing it, Lindsay.’ Pixie gave her a kind look. ‘I know you don’t mean it, and so does he most of the time, but you’ve got a wicked tongue and you hurt him sometimes. Pity about that—you might have been in there with a chance…’

  Lindsay turned to look at her own reflection. She would silence that tongue of hers, she thought; she would cut that tongue out if necessary. Never ever again, no matter how provoked, would she give Rowland McGuire a sharp answer. From now on, in her capacity as his friend, of course, she would speak with a becoming, a womanly sweetness; she would anoint Rowland with the balm of her female discourse…I shall be dulcet, she resolved, and not just to Rowland, but to all the male sex. Perhaps a certain tartness, even a shrewishness, had been her problem all along, she thought. And how astonishing that Pixie, whose instincts were usually acute for such nuances, should
think she might have been in there with a chance.

  Resolving to reform, and to start practising this new mildness of tongue immediately—she could practise on Colin over dinner, she realized; how fortunate—she executed a little pirouette. Pixie examined her, critically, from head to foot. The two women’s eyes met in the mirror; both smiled.

  ‘Well, I have to say it—you look great. I’ve improved you no end. Your skin’s radiant, your eyes are shining…Quite a transformation.’ Pixie gave her a sidelong sly glance. ‘I can’t take all the credit, there must be another reason…Anticipation, perhaps?’

  ‘What?’ Lindsay looked at her blankly. ‘Oh, of Colin, you mean? Well, it will be nice to have a quiet dinner somewhere…’

  ‘Quiet, huh?’ Pixie smiled. ‘You like him, maybe? I wouldn’t blame you. Thin but Byronic. Nice butt. Wild hair. Great line in Levis. Well hung. Dresses to the left—that’s always a good sign…’

  ‘How observant you are, Pixie. I must remember that.’

  ‘And quite an operator too, I’d say…’

  ‘An operator?’ Lindsay shook her head vehemently. ‘No, Pixie, you’ve got hold of the wrong end of the stick. He’s sweet. Volatile. A bit naïve. Not very sure of himself…’

  ‘Oh yeah? Like, he finds out what flight you’re on, and switches to it himself. Then he chats up that stewardess at Heathrow—I watched him do it, Lindsay—and gets you both bumped up to First Class? I’ve seen him with you, in the bar, gazing at you with those innocent blue eyes, looking like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth…I read this man, Lindsay, and I know exactly what he’s after.’ She giggled. ‘And if I were you, I’d give it to him. After dinner tonight.’

  Lindsay listened to this speech in thoughtful silence. From the vantage point of her new-won maturity and saintliness of character, she gave poor one-track-mind Pixie a pitying look.

  ‘Pixie,’ she said, ‘you’re getting cynical, you know that? When you’re older, you’ll understand. Sometimes men and women like to meet and simply talk. There is no hidden agenda…’