Free Little White Lies by Gemma Townley Page B

You know you’re going to feel bad in hours, maybe minutes, but right now you feel decadent, in control. The sound of the envelope ripping is so sumptuous, I string the opening out for as long as I can. Whatever’s inside is going to be good, I can feel it in my bones.
    I feel inside and pull out a letter. I look at it closely, then move it away from my eyes. For some reason I’m having trouble focusing. Oh, I remember. I’m still pissed.
    I blink a few times, then begin to read.
    Dear Cressida,
    As promised I am writing with details of Simon Rutherford. He fulfills your criteria; he has amassed a large fortune in the City and has an interest in alternative therapies; he is also a very charming man, so I am sure that you will get along famously. His address is below, or you can contact him care of Henderson Investment Management, on 020 7556 7000.
    Wishing you all the best,
    Leonora Stapleton
    I feel a stab of disappointment. This isn’t an invitation to Madonna’s birthday party, or to Leonardo and Giselle’s wedding. It’s nothing more than a matchmaking letter.
    Still, it shows that Cressida can’t be that perfect, after all—I mean she can’t even get a boyfriend for herself!
    Enjoying the wicked thought that Cressida probably isn’t quite as sorted as I’d imagined, I look more closely at the letter. What sort of dating agency would a member of Soho House use? Might they have celebrity members? Maybe I could join up!
    I stare closely at the address at the top—there is no sign of a company name, so I don’t think it can be a dating agency actually; not with a handwritten letter like this. So it must be an introduction from a friend or something. I read again: “he has amassed a large fortune in the City . . .” What kind of fortune? I wonder.
    The “interest in alternative therapies” bit might also help to explain the phone calls I’ve been getting for people wanting Reiki healing. I also get calls from people wanting the local Chinese takeaway, so I never really thought anything of it, but I guess Cressida might actually have been a Reiki healer.
    I had Reiki myself once, at this new alternative health spa that opened in Bath a year ago. People in the West Country love that stuff—we’re not far from Stonehenge and crop circles and everyone thinks they’re incredibly spiritual. Anyway, this hippie-type woman just put her hands really near me, but not on me, while I lay on a white leather couch. I didn’t really see the point of it, but evidently other people did, because it got raving reviews in the
Bath Gazette.
    So Cressida’s a Reiki healer. I wonder if she used to do it here? I sniff the air to see if I can detect a spiritual energy, but instead I just make myself feel even dizzier than I did before. It’s weird, though—I’ve got this picture of Cressida in my mind as a real glamour-puss. I mean, come on, Soho House was in
Sex and the City,
and she eats at Nobu. Whereas Reiki healers wear sandals and purple, don’t they?
    I turn back to the letter, wondering what Cressida’s prospective boyfriend is like. Simon Rutherford. Hmmm. Probably wears pinstripe suits and has a protruding stomach from all those business lunches.
    When I was little, my dad and I used to play this game whenever we went to the dentist. There would be loads of copies of
Country Life
lying around and we used to flick to the page where they had a photo of some rich girl who had just got engaged. Dad would cover up the words at the bottom of the photo and we would have to guess what her name was. In retrospect it probably wasn’t the best game in the world, but I used to love it. I also used to imagine people looking at a photo of me and guessing what my name was. So, Cressida Rutherford. Hmm, not bad.
    Bugger. I thought the letter was going to be far more interesting than that.
    I put it down and get myself another drink of water, then wander back to the sofa, but before I get there I stub my toe. Again. That’s