The Millionaire's Smallest Lie

How it begins

Richard Moss wanted to say he had grown up without much.

Nadia Clarke asked how much.

He studied the rehearsal script. 'Very little.'

'Compared with whom?'

'Is that necessary?'

'If you intend to stand outside your old school and say it, yes.'

The room cost more per night than Nadia's first flat had cost per month. Richard had selected it because the public-relations team thought returning to his roots required staying nearby. His roots were three streets away, behind a locked gate and a temporary stage.

He tried the sentence again, softening the vowels.

'You sound as though you're apologizing for a delayed train,' Nadia said.

'I am paying you to make me sound ordinary.'

'Ordinary people usually know which train they're on.'

He laughed, then looked toward the door to see whether anyone had heard. She wondered how often he had to check whether he was permitted to find himself amusing.

On the table lay photographs selected for the speech. A narrow kitchen. A school blazer. A child beside a bicycle whose price had been carefully omitted from the caption.

Nadia picked up the kitchen photograph. A woman's arm entered from the edge of the frame. Nothing else of her remained.

'Who is this?'

'Our housekeeper.'

'The script says your mother worked every hour.'

'She did. She was a surgeon.'

Nadia set down the photograph. Richard watched her.

Outside, workers were unloading barriers for his welcome-home appearance. One man balanced a metal panel against his knee while checking his telephone. The entire street would be closed so a millionaire could be filmed walking down it.

'What is the smallest true thing you could say?' she asked.

Richard opened his mouth. For the first time all morning, no prepared version of himself appeared ready to answer.

His assistant waited with a red pen, ready to turn the hesitation into something they could sell.