Frequent F'liar'

Lies came as naturally to Lisa as flies to fruit until she went on a particularly long flight of fantasy!

“Did you post my letter?” asked her father. “Sorry, Dad, I forgot,” said Lisa, though she had dropped it in the mailbox.

“What are you wearing to Sarah’s wedding?” enquired her mother.

“My blue dress, Mummy,” said Lisa, picturing herself in red. “Haven’t you completed your composition yet?” demanded a teacher.

“Just two lines more, Ma’am,” pleaded Lisa, who had finished ten minutes earlier.

“Your lies are so pointless,” said Lisa’s friend Rosy as they sat in the park. “They aren’t even white lies, because those are usually uttered with good reason.” As the girls were talking, a small boy approached them.

“Have you seen my ball?” he asked. Lisa had spotted it but shook her head, as Rosy retrieved it from behind a bush. “May I know the time, please?” said the child. “Six o’clock,” answered Lisa promptly. “Oh, no!” wailed the little fellow and scampered home.

“It’s only 5.30,” said Rosy. “The poor kid had half-an-hour of playtime left. I don’t understand you, Lisa!”

 “I don’t understand myself,” confessed Lisa. “It’s just that I find telling the truth deadly dull!”

“You remind me of a poem,” said Rosy, reciting: “Matilda told such dreadful lies/ It made one gasp and stretch one’s eyes.”

“Wonderful!” said Lisa admiringly. “What happens to her?”

“Matilda invents a fire and summons the fire brigade,” explained Rosy. “They arrive in full force and discover the hoax. One day, there actually is a fire, and Matilda screams for help. Everyone thinks she is bluffing, and no one comes to her rescue.”

“People are so selfish,” murmured Lisa, quite missing the point. “Anyway, I’m off to Mumbai to spend a week with my aunt and uncle. “No, I really am going,” she laughed. “I wouldn’t lie to you, Rosy!”

On the flight to Mumbai, Lisa sat next to an elegant, middle-aged woman who asked if Lisa was travelling by air for the first time.

Lisa nodded. She would have liked to say she was a frequent flier, but knew that she had betrayed inexperience by fumbling with her seatbelt. “I’ll be staying with Ambareena Arjun, the film star,” she announced.

Her fellow passenger looked as if she would fall off her seat if she were not strapped to it. “She’s my cousin; my father’s sister’s daughter,” Lisa continued, thrilled at the effect she had produced.

Lisa’s neighbour seemed dazed, but roused herself to ask if Ambareena would receive Lisa at the airport.

“I don’t think so,” said Lisa. “She’ll probably send her secretary. Ambareena told me that she’s very busy shooting for her latest film. In fact, she was at my home last month, and I helped her rehearse her role.”

 “And what might that be?” said Lisa’s companion, a faint smile hovering on her lips.
Lisa thought quickly, “A patient in a mental asylum,” she replied.

“I believe I read somewhere that Ambareena was playing an advocate.”

“That’s right,” said Lisa. “She’s a lawyer who goes mad when her client is hanged.”

“What a story!” exclaimed Lisa’s new acquaintance as the aircraft began its descent. “What a story!” she repeated. “I mean yours, my dear,” she went on.

“My niece certainly has a vivid imagination.” As Lisa stared at her in shock, the lady added pleasantly: “I am delighted to meet you, for I am Mrs Arjun, Ambareena’s mother!”