Little White Lies Read online

  Little White Lies

  Lesley Lokko

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Acknowledgements

  GODMOTHERS

  Prologue

  PART ONE Teenagers

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  PART TWO Escape

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  PART THREE Beginnings

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  PART FOUR Sink or swim

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  PART FIVE Swimming

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  PART SIX Arriving

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  Chapter 73

  Chapter 74

  Chapter 75

  Chapter 76

  Chapter 77

  Chapter 78

  Chapter 79

  Chapter 80

  Chapter 81

  Chapter 82

  Chapter 83

  Chapter 84

  Chapter 85

  Chapter 86

  Chapter 87

  Chapter 88

  PART SEVEN Drowning

  Chapter 89

  Chapter 90

  Chapter 91

  Chapter 92

  Chapter 93

  Chapter 94

  Chapter 95

  Chapter 96

  Chapter 97

  Chapter 98

  Chapter 99

  Chapter 100

  Chapter 101

  Chapter 102

  PART EIGHT Deceiving

  Chapter 103

  Chapter 104

  Chapter 105

  Chapter 106

  Chapter 107

  Chapter 108

  Chapter 109

  Chapter 110

  Chapter 111

  Chapter 112

  Chapter 113

  Chapter 114

  Chapter 115

  Chapter 116

  Chapter 117

  Chapter 118

  Chapter 119

  Chapter 120

  EPILOGUE Friendship

  Also By Lesley Lokko

  Copyright

  Acknowledgements

  This is a novel about three families, originating in very different parts of the world, whose histories encompass some of the best-and least-known moments of the twentieth century. In the case of the Harburgs and the Betancourts, I have relied on three works in particular: Ron Chernow’s excellent The Warburgs: the Twentieth-Century Odyssey of a Remarkable Jewish Family (Vintage: New York, 1990); The World’s Banker: the History of the House of Rothschild (Weidenfeld & Nicholson: London, 1998) by Niall Ferguson; and an online essay, Afro-Brazilians in Togo: the Case of the Olympio Family 1882–1945, by Alcione M. Amos, (http://etudesafricaines.revues.org).

  Although this novel concerns an entirely fictional family, the Betan-courts, some of their story will be at least partially familiar to those who know the history of Togo. In order to fashion their tale, I have taken enormous liberties with historical facts and I must stress that this is, above all, a work of fiction. The chronology of events and the historical reasons for the fall of the Betancourts are not indicative of anything that happened to any one family in Togo, nor should it be read as a factual history of that beautiful country in any way. I borrowed heavily from the history of the Olympio family and anyone wishing to read more about them would do well to begin with the online article mentioned above. Sadly, much of what I know about the Olympio family comes from my beloved friend, Natasha Olympio, who died tragically in July 2011, and whom I miss every single day.

  As ever, thanks go to my über-agent, Kate Shaw (simply the best); my lovely editor Kate Mills and the whole team at Orion; friends in London, Edinburgh, Johannesburg and Accra; and of course, my whole family, Debbie, Megan, Nick, Lois, Simon, Paul, Mae-Ling, Noe and Dad, spread as they are across the globe. I enlisted the help of several dear friends and colleagues to help with the various foreign languages. To Stephan Ata, Marilî Santos-Munné, Nenad Cvetkovic, Konstantin von Eggert, Bart Goldhoorn, Inessa Kouteinikova, Delphine de Blic, Sandra Dorville, Igor Marjanovic and Joy Terekiev, I’d like to say an enormous ‘thank you.’ I’d also like to thank two very dear, very special ‘teenage-hood’ friends with whom I’ve recently reconnected (though, thankfully, not on Facebook!) – Roy Engel and Lori Rose, who’ll recognise parts of the scenery we once shared a very, very long time ago. I hope I’ve done it (and you) justice.

  GODMOTHERS

  ‘Always a godmother, never a mother. That sucks.’

  Courtney Cox

  Prologue

  2013

  Martha’s Vineyard, Cape Cod, USA

  She lay on the ground with her cheek pressed flat against the Persian rug, her mouth stirring sporadically, as if she were about to speak. Her hands were tightly balled fists at her sides and her breathing was laboured and shallow. Outside, amidst the muffled noise of running feet and barking dogs, a child cried out: David, perhaps, or Joshua? She couldn’t tell. Whoever it was, he was hurriedly picked up and hushed. It was nearly six p.m. and the hard, high ball of fire that was the sun had started slipping towards the horizon. It was only May but already the days were long and hot. A week ago, just before her guests arrived, she’d ordered the covers off the swimming pool. Every morning, the servants unfurled the large white patio umbrellas and plumped up the blue-and-white striped cushions, making the shimmering turquoise pool the centre of the day’s activities. Every day, including today. Today. Her skin began to crawl.

  For the hundredth time, her mind skittered over the hours that had passed since that morning, trying to make sense of it all. The day had begun like every other day. She’d gone out early, just as dawn was breaking, drink in hand – orange juice, with the barest splash of vodka – just enough to get the day going. She’d dipped her feet in the heated water at the shallow end, enjoying the early-morning quiet. Toys, the debris of games begun and abandoned, lay scattered around the grey birch decking that ran all the way around the house. Toys. Children’s toys. At the thought of the toys, her lips began to tremble a
ll over again. She moved her head a fraction and the rich, dense colours of the carpet rose up to meet her half-closed eyes. Yellow: pomegranate, chamomile, egg-yolk. Red: blood, wine, burgundy, ruby. Black: walnut, bark, night. It was a beautiful carpet. Large and soft, it stretched from one end of the study to the other. Expensive, too. She’d lied to Adam about the price, of course, knocking off a few thousand dollars, though she’d no reason to – it was her money, after all. But Adam was so unpredictable these days, especially where money was concerned. Her stomach gave a horrible, twisting lurch. Oh, God, Adam. He would be back from New York any minute now. What would he say? He would blame her, of course. Everyone blamed her and why the hell shouldn’t they? It was her fault. She was to blame, no one else.

  Her mind began to wander uncontrollably again, darting back and forth over the day’s events but without any sense of order. When did it happen? Before or after breakfast? After she’d come in from the pool? Had she really told Clea to take a break? ‘No, no, you have an afternoon off, Clea. I’ll look after them. Come on, four kids . . . it’s not rocket science!’ She’d grinned at her. Clea. Lovely Clea, the cousin of one of the girls who worked for the Lowensteins, her neighbours. Betty Lowenstein introduced them soon after Tash arrived; she’d hired her on the spot. She seemed so nice. And so capable. It was she, Tash, who wasn’t capable.

  You’ve got to get up. Her own voice. She tried to lift her head. It felt wobbly, as though it wasn’t properly attached. Footsteps approached suddenly; someone was coming up the stairs. Heavy. A man’s tread. It must be the inspector. No, not inspector – detective. Wasn’t that what they called inspectors over here? Detectives? Officers? Sergeants? No idea. The steps slowed and he came to a stop. She could hear his breathing through the door. She held her own breath. Please don’t come in. Not yet. A minute spooled slowly by, then another, and another. She waited. Just when she thought she might scream at him to go away, she heard him turn back. She exhaled very slowly, the breath leaving her body in short, sharp gasps. He was wary of her; she’d sensed it straight away. Something in the way he couldn’t quite hold her gaze, despite the seriousness of the occasion. His eyes kept slipping away from her to the cars parked in the driveway, the enormous house, the works of art, the furniture and the Persian rugs and the servants who kept flitting in and out like lost bees. She knew exactly what he was thinking. Rich bitch. Rich, foreign bitch. The line dividing the residents of the luxurious holiday homes along the water’s edge from the locals who lived in Edgartown was clear. Them and us. Rich and poor. The idle and working classes. But he knew nothing. He knew nothing about her, where she’d come from, what she’d done. He had no idea. And, idle or not, rich or not, the absolute worst had come to pass. Tragedies can happen anywhere, to anyone. She, of all people, should have known that.

  He walked down the stairs, his heels clipping out a sharp, crisp rhythm that slowly faded to silence. Somewhere on the ground floor a door opened; there was an exchange of voices but she couldn’t hear what was said. There was the short, staccato burst of a walkie-talkie or a radio. A car swept into the driveway, scattering gravel; the dogs barked wildly. More voices. The house was beginning to fill up with people. More police. She struggled upright. Her knees and hands were shaking; her mouth was bone dry. It was time to call Rebecca.

  PART ONE

  TEENAGERS

  ‘Adolescence: a stage between infancy and adultery.’

  Ambrose Bierce

  1

  1993

  TATIANA BRYCE-BRUDENELL

  Chelsea, London

  With the sort of anxious concentration that only teenagers can muster, seventeen-year-old Tash Bryce-Brudenell carefully examined herself in the tiny bathroom mirror. Things weren’t looking good. Mousy brown hair pulled back into a ponytail (a style she’d sported since the age of six); pale blue eyes (set much too far apart); short, barely there eyelashes (blonde, not brown, highlighting their absence even further). At least her skin was reasonably clear – a few spots, a few freckles – not as bad as some of the girls in her class. Not Annick, though. Or Rebecca. She sighed. What kind of malicious deity had made her so goddamn plain and her two best friends so goddamn pretty? She had no answer.

  She soldiered grimly on, baring her teeth in an approximation of a smile. She grimaced. Her teeth were dreadful – too many, too long, too crowded, too crooked. Smile only when absolutely necessary. Chin? Weak, but at least it wasn’t receding. She’d been lucky there. She’d never met her father but in the few photographs her mother had shown her, he had an unmistakably receding chin. She turned slowly sideways. Her nose now came into its problematic own. It was large and long with an uncomfortably high bridge that made it difficult to keep her glasses on. Another typical Bryce-Brudenell feature (or so her mother said).

  ‘Tatiana?’ Her mother’s voice came barrelling through the door. ‘Chto ty tam delaesh? What you doing in there?’ As ever, Lyudmila said everything twice, once in Russian and then (as if Tash didn’t understand) in English.

  ‘Nothing,’ Tash yelled back unconvincingly. ‘I’ll be out in a second.’ She hurriedly turned on the taps.

  ‘My budem pozdno. We gonna be late.’

  We’re going to be late, not we gonna be late, Tash automatically mouthed. Not that Lyudmila would take any notice. She’d lived in England for almost twenty years but her voice, syntax and grammar had lost none of their sensual, throaty Russianness.

  ‘What you doing in there?’ Lyudmila asked again, exasperated. Hers was a voice that could penetrate lead.

  ‘I’m coming,’ Tash hissed. She rinsed her hands and yanked open the door. ‘What’s the bloody rush?’ Her eyes narrowed suspiciously as she surveyed her mother. Lyudmila was dressed as though ready to go out – a long, floor-sweeping fur coat that, although it had clearly seen better days, was still impressive; black high-heeled boots and a soft black beret over her blonde, waist-length hair. Almost every penny of the meagre allowance that came through every month from the Bryce-Brudenell family solicitors in Edinburgh was spent on clothes – Lyudmila’s, not Tash’s. Lyudmila spent more than enough on Tash’s school fees, she lamented. Daily. ‘Why you not ready, dushen’ka?’ she asked, impatiently tugging on her gloves.

  ‘Ready? What for?’ Tash frowned. ‘Are we going somewhere?’

  Lyudmila rolled her eyes. ‘Dushen’ka, I told you. We have invite. Lady Soames invite us. You and me. We must to go now.’

  Tash groaned. ‘Oh, God, Ma, no! Not Lady Soames! Why do I have to come? No one’ll even notice if I’m not there. Why don’t you go by yourself?’

  Lyudmila shook her head firmly. ‘Nyet. I promise her you coming. Hurry up. You know she doesn’t like it when we is late.’

  ‘When we are late,’ Tash corrected her sulkily.

  Lyudmila shrugged. ‘Is. Are. No difference. Come. Where is coat?’

  ‘Where I left it.’ Tash sighed. She followed her mother reluctantly down the corridor. Lyudmila was up to something; she could tell by her excited, distracted air.

  ‘Dushen’ka, why you always so nezgovorchivaya?’ Lyudmila paused to view her reflection in the mirror before opening the front door. Nezgovorchivaya. Disagreeable. It was her favourite word, especially when it came to Tash.

  ‘Because that’s the way you made me,’ Tash said, tightening her ponytail defiantly.

  ‘Not true,’ Lyudmila said calmly. ‘I try everything make you nice girl.’ She opened the cupboard door and pulled out Tash’s coat, a sensible black woollen schoolgirl number. ‘Okay, here is coat. Come. We late.’ She marched ahead.

  We are late, Tash mouthed silently, crossly. She followed her mother disconsolately out the door.

  ‘Taxi!’ Only in Lyudmila’s mouth could the word come out as ‘texy’. A black cab on the opposite side of the road, spotting the long blonde hair and fur coat, turned immediately and screeched to an abrupt halt.

  ‘Where to, love?’ The driver looked Lyudmila appreciatively up and down. Tash hung back instincti
vely.

  Lyudmila grasped the door handle and climbed in. ‘Christchurch Street. You know where is it?’

  ‘Christchurch Street? What . . . the one round the corner?’ The driver sounded disbelieving. Tash’s face began to burn.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You’d be quicker walking, love.’

  ‘I like drive.’ Lyudmila pulled out her compact and started powdering her nose. For a second, Tash caught and held the driver’s incredulous gaze. She looked away. He pulled out into the traffic without a word.

  ‘Dushen’ka, be nice today, hmm?’ Lyudmila turned her attention away from her own face just briefly. She reached across and tucked a stray lock of lank hair behind Tash’s ear. Tash only just resisted the temptation to smack her hand away.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because,’ Lyudmila answered cryptically.

  Tash turned her face back to the window. Yes, her mother was definitely up to something. She caught a glimpse of her own reflection. She looked down at her hands. It wasn’t easy being Lyudmila’s daughter, especially not her ugly daughter.

  ‘Lyudmila! How lovely to see you, my darling! What a surprise! Do come in! Come in. It’s absolutely perishing outside! And here’s the lovely little Tatiana. How splendid of you to come! You know the way – of course you do!’ Lady Pamela Soames stood in the hallway, practically (and inexplicably) rubbing her hands in glee. She looked like a cross between a sumo wrestler and a poodle, Tash thought to herself uncharitably. How on earth could it be a surprise when she was clearly expecting them? And who in the world would ever call her ‘lovely’ – or, even more ludicrous, ‘little’? Her height was the only thing she’d inherited from her mother. At seventeen she was nearly six feet tall. ‘How are you, darling?’ Lady Soames looked up at her indulgently.

  ‘Who? Me?’ Tash scowled down at her and was rewarded by a sharp prod from Lyudmila.

  ‘Teenager,’ Lyudmila said helplessly, making it sound like a terminal illness. ‘What I can do?’

  ‘Oh, don’t I know it,’ Lady Soames said conspiratorially, tucking her arm into Lyudmila’s as she led them towards the conservatory. ‘It’s a dreadful time, absolutely dreadful. For all concerned.’ She lowered her voice. ‘Now, listen, darling. I’ve asked Rupert to come downstairs but he’s a bit reluctant, I’m afraid. You know what they’re like at his age.’