Little White Lies by Lesley Lokko Page A

magazine or a novel. Very occasionally, she picked up a newspaper, which she generally put aside with an expression of dismay. She’d never worked in her life. Work was for men, or for women of a much lower class. And work was certainly not for her daughter, Embeth. In fact, the whole conversation about sending her to America had been couched in terms of
improving her chances
, but not of the professional kind.
    ‘Here . . . what d’you think?’ Betty said suddenly, jumping to her feet and interrupting Embeth’s rather dismal train of thought. Embeth looked up from the suitcase. Betty was standing in front of the mirror, admiring herself. She’d pinned her hair up with one hand. ‘Too Grace Kelly?’
    ‘A little,’ Embeth agreed, smiling. ‘But that’s not such a bad thing.’
    ‘Reckon I could get me a prince too?’
    ‘Well,
you’d
probably stand a better chance than me,’ Embeth giggled. She quickly hopped over the bed and came to stand behind her. For a moment the mirror held the two of them: Betty, cool, serene-looking and blonde and Embeth, dark and fiery. With raven-black hair, almond-shaped eyes, high cheekbones, she was darker than either of her brothers.
Un toque de alquitrán
.
A touch of the tar brush, a shadow behind the ears
. There were many sayings in Spanish to explain why some within a family might have a duskier complexion than others. Miriám paled when she heard them and forbade Embeth from going in the sun. By the time Embeth was in her teens, she couldn’t recall the last time she’d had a tan. Now, in her early twenties, her skin was pale and soft with only the faintest hint of colour rising in her cheeks when she was embarrassed or upset. ‘Why don’t you wear it loose?’ she suggested, looking at Betty. ‘It suits you best.’
    ‘Yeah, maybe you’re right. D’you think I gained weight?’
    Embeth rolled her eyes. ‘
Betty!
I don’t believe you. Here we are, a week after graduation, and all you can talk about is hair and weight? Come on, there are so many other things worth talking about.’
    ‘Yeah? Like what?’
    ‘Well,’ Embeth said, considering, ‘like . . . like the war, for one thing. Did you hear about Medger Evers?’
    ‘Who?’ Betty yawned at her in the mirror.
    ‘Medger Evers, the civil rights activist. He was murdered yesterday.’
    ‘Oh,
him
.’ Betty inspected her nails. ‘The problem with you, Embeth,’ she drawled lazily, ‘is that you think too much. There are so many other things to focus on.’
    ‘Like what?’
    ‘Like what are you wearing tonight?’
    ‘Oh,
Betty
.’ Embeth shook her head. But perhaps Betty was right, in her own, rather myopic way. What was the point of getting all steamed up about a war that was being fought ten thousand miles away? She picked up another cashmere jumper. It was pale pink, a Betty sort of colour. ‘Here . . . I’m never going to wear these again. Would you like them?’ She pointed to the growing pile of pastel-coloured sweaters and cardigans.
    ‘Are you
kidding
? Ohmigod!
Thank
you, honey!’ Betty squealed, pouncing on the pile. ‘You’re an
angel
! These’ll look
so
good with those new pedal pushers I just bought – you know, the black ones? They’re
so
fashionable right now! Jackie Kennedy had on a pair the other day, did you notice?’
    ‘I was too busy focusing on what her husband was saying,’ Embeth said drily.
    It was Betty’s turn to roll her eyes affectionately. ‘Like I said, you
think
too much, Em. Oh, I can’t
wait
to try these on.’ She clutched the sweaters to her chest, pressing her cheek into the luxuriously soft wool. She gave a deep sigh of heartfelt contentment. ‘You’re so
lucky
, Embeth.’
    And this time Embeth had no idea what to say.

9
SIX MONTHS LATER
    EMBETH
Avenida San Carlos, Caracas, Venezuela
    The conversation at the dinner table was conducted, as ever, in Spanish, English and German, and occasionally all three at once. The discussions ranged far and wide