Free Little White Lies by Lesley Lokko Page B

back in London. Unlike so many of the men who dined
chez
Hausmann, he actually addressed the odd question to
her
.
    ‘Did you enjoy America?’ he asked her after the first introductions had been made and they found themselves next to one another as they strolled into the dining room.
    ‘Er, yes . . . yes, I did.’ Embeth suddenly found her voice. ‘Ithaca was . . . is beautiful.’
    ‘I’ve never been. I hear it’s magnificent in winter.’
Vinter
. His voice was deep, with a rich layering of many accents. He was German, so she’d been told, although he’d lived in London for long enough to be considered British. ‘And do you ski?’
    ‘Er, yes . . . yes, I do, actually.’
    ‘Here in Caracas?’
    ‘Oh, no, no, we—’ She looked up at him uncertainly. He was smiling. Teasing her. She blushed. ‘No, of course not. In Europe. We go to Switzerland most years.’
    ‘Ah.’
    And then her mother placed her hand on his arm, deftly steering him away.
    ‘He’s not
that
old,’ Mercedes said firmly, dipping the giant battered prawns into a large copper pot of boiling oil. There was a satisfying hiss as they hit the oil, puffing up immediately. She deftly ladled them out a few seconds later, hot and glistening, onto a paper plate. ‘Here, try one.’
    Embeth picked it up gingerly with her fingertips and bit into one end. A hot fragrant rush of coriander, chilli and lime flooded her mouth. It was delicious. She devoured it in seconds. ‘
Está bien
,’ she said, nodding in approval. ‘So . . . you don’t think he’s too old?’ She returned to the all-important topic at hand. It was two days since the dinner party and she’d woken that morning to the news that Lionel Harburg was coming back. To dinner. Alone, without his elderly uncle and that dreadful Dutchman whom they’d all disliked.
    ‘For what?’ Mercedes looked at her slyly. ‘For you?’
    Embeth blushed and looked away. ‘No, not for me,’ she mumbled. ‘I was just wondering, that’s all.’
    ‘Hmph.’ Mercedes wasn’t fooled. ‘S’better like that,’ she said knowingly. ‘S’better when the man is older.’
    ‘So how old
do
you think he is?’ Embeth asked, ignoring her somewhat suspect advice. How would Mercedes know what was better? As far as Embeth knew, the closest she’d ever been to a man was her father.
    ‘Forty-seven,’ Mercedes said, not without a hint of triumph. ‘
And
he’s not married.’
    Embeth’s eyebrows went up. ‘How d’you know all that?’
    The corners of Mercedes’ mouth went up, almost mockingly. ‘What? You think I don’t know things?’
    Embeth suppressed her own smile. She was right. There was little Mercedes and Sophia
didn’t
know or see. Forty-seven. It seemed veritably ancient, though Lionel Harburg certainly didn’t
look
ancient. ‘How d’you know he’s not married?’ she asked after a decent enough pause.
    Mercedes shook her head. ‘His collars. They’re not pressed properly. No wife lets her husband out of the house like that. No, there’s no wife. You want another one,
chica
?’ she indicated the battered prawns.
    Embeth shook her head and slid off the stool. She was already thinking ahead to what she might wear for dinner that evening. ‘No, I’m not hungry,’ she said dreamily.
    ‘Black,’ Mercedes said firmly.
    Embeth looked at her blankly. ‘Black?’
    ‘Wear your black evening gown. You know, the one with the sleeves like this,’ she crossed her hands across her chest in imitation of the Halston pleated silk gown that was sheathed in tissue and plastic in her wardrobe upstairs. ‘And put your hair up. It’ll make you look
más sophisticada
. Not so young.’
    Embeth blinked slowly. Truly, there wasn’t a thing the woman missed. ‘Okay,’ she said meekly.
    He was
very
quick, not just in the way he talked, but in the way he listened. He caught every glance, every shift in mood at the table without ever seeming to look. She liked that. There was a knowing subtlety