Scandalous Lies: An addictive, sexy beach read

by Nigel May

  All of the other figures around the fire held their hands aloft. The music stopped almost instantly. Silence filled the air. ‘What’s happening, Foster? This is beginning to freak me out,’ stammered Mitzi. The atmosphere had turned from daring to deadly.

  Foster was unsure what to say.

  Then it happened.

  The man holding the knife drew it aloft and brought it swiftly across the woman’s throat. Even from their somewhat distant position, Foster and Mitzi could see the spurt of deep crimson blood that flowed from her neck as the female clutched her hands to her throat before she fell to the floor. Disbelief and fear stuck in their own throats, threatening to choke them.

  For a moment, time stood still, nothing daring to move. Then the full horror of what the couple had just seen hit them. Before she could stop herself, Mitzi screamed. A loud, terrified, blood-curdling scream. ‘They’ve killed her.’ It was all she could shout. Her voice pierced the air. Sensible it wasn’t, but the noise had escaped from her lips before any semblance of rationality could form.

  Once again, for a second, it seemed like all movement halted, nobody sure what their next action should be. Then as Mitzi and Foster watched on in horror, the figures turned to face the direction of the scream.

  Moving away from the fireside and the body on the floor, the figures began to run in their direction.

  ‘Fuck, they’ve heard us, they’re coming this way. Foster, we need to get out of here now.’

  Foster and Mitzi raced towards the camper van, the sound of footsteps and shouts coming from a mass of directions behind them. They needed to get back to the RV and away from the canyon. Neither was in any fit state to drive, both over the limit, but fear and abject terror spurred them into sobriety. This was a race to survive.

  Mitzi could feel her heart burning within her chest as she fumbled her way towards the van. The flip flops she was wearing slid beneath her feet on the loose canyon floor. As one fell off, she jettisoned the other, leaving her barefoot.

  Foster ran beside her, his panting just about audible alongside her own. A cacophony of voices sounded behind them. They seemed to be getting closer.

  The light of their camper van, guiding them to hopeful safety, didn’t seem to be getting any nearer. They hadn’t walked for more than a few minutes towards the fire, had they? Maybe it was further than they realised.

  Mitzi was suddenly aware that the sound of Foster’s breathing behind her had disappeared. Where was he? She called his name, her voice dry with fear. There was no answer. She didn’t dare stop and look back. She kept running towards the light. She’d soon be there, soon. Maybe Foster was there already, he was stronger than her.

  A voice sounded behind her. Was it Foster? She couldn’t tell above the sound of her own heartbeat. Turning to glance, her ankle twisted beneath her as another loose rock slid beneath her toes. She fell to the ground. As she did so, she bit down onto her tongue as the force of the canyon bottom slammed into her face. The coppery taste of blood filled her mouth.

  She had to keep going. The light was brighter, she was nearly there.

  Dizzy from her fall, she tried to stand up and keep running. She felt wobbly; there was a stabbing pain in her leg. Had she broken something? For a second all she could think about was her dancing career. The bright lights of the dance floor filled her head. Would she ever see it again? Would she ever escape the darkness?

  Still on her hands and knees as she tried to stand back up, Mitzi felt the brushing of hessian against her skin before hands gripped either side of her neck. She didn’t even have time to scream before a different kind of darkness took her.

  The next morning as the sun rose over Hell’s Canyon and remorselessly beat down onto the arid land, there was no sign of life again. No animals scurrying, no lush green vegetation thriving, and no sign of the RV or the two famous Brits who had been there the night before.

  One

  ‘So, I’m afraid yet again it looks like the British summer is set to be besieged with rain and heavy thunder storms. Hopefully I’ll have better news for you tomorrow. I’ll see you then. Meanwhile it’s back to Kate, who’s on the sofa with Charlie for the showbiz news.’

  As the camera cut away from her, weather presenter Georgia Bellamy let the painted-on smile fall from her face quicker than one of the heavy summer raindrops she’d just been talking about. It was her last bulletin of the morning and thankfully she no longer had to inform the viewers of Rise and Shine what they would undoubtedly already know if they’d ventured outside or indeed merely looked out of their windows at any point over the last week. The weather was wet again, the sky full of dark ominous clouds and it was all horribly typical for the UK’s last few days of a so-called summer.

  Georgia had rapidly become the country’s favourite ‘climatic crumpet’ or ‘barascopic beauty’ depending on which newspaper’s website you logged onto. This was thanks to her model-esque looks; she had a shoulder length, jet black retro bob and huge Kohl-rimmed ‘bush baby’ eyes. Today she was finding it hard to live up to her usual effervescent, bubbly persona. Despite her meteoric rise up the celebrity ladder and the fact that she was gaining more column inches in glossy gossip magazines than a penthouse suite full of young royals of late, her mood was decidedly basement-low. In fact it was darker than the clouds she’d been pointing to all morning on her green-screen map.

  The reason for her funk was justified though. Her best friend, dancer Mitzi Bidgood, was still missing. Three weeks into a month long vacation with her reality-star boyfriend Foster Hampton in the States, the pair of them had simply vanished into thin air. Now, three weeks after that, what had once been the lead story on every UK news channel and edge-to-edge front page news was being relegated to ‘and finally, still no news on the disappearance of Foster Hampton and Mitzi Bidgood’, behind vacuous stories of glamour models having yet another baby with yet another father and former doped-up car crash actresses trying their hand at serious West End theatre glory.

  Returning to her dressing room and slumping down into the butter-soft nut brown leather chair in front of the mirror that ran along the entirety of one wall, Georgia couldn’t help but imagine the worst. The TV show Mitzi worked on had immediately issued a statement after the disappearance saying that the show would carry on without her, her celebrity partner sadly shelved for the moment, and that they hoped good news would become apparent soon. But the show must go on, and didn’t Georgia just know it. Mitzi and Foster were becoming yesterday’s news and Georgia’s hopes of ever seeing her BFF again were fading fast.

  It was the lack of finality that was crippling her. Were they dead? More than likely. Georgia was no stranger to heartache and losing those that she loved. But no bodies meant no funerals and that meant no closing the chapter on her grief. Every day was becoming a horrible wannabe-upbeat-but-failing routine of ‘maybe today is the day that news will break’. Then nothing. The police in America seemed to have given up. There was camera footage of the couple’s RV as it sailed though some sleepy backwater town in California, and after that, a big slice of nothing.

  Georgia stared at the passport booth photo strip of her and Mitzi laughing together that she’d stuck onto her mirror frame. The early days of their soul-mate friendship. In her mind, Georgia figured that if she had a constant reminder of Mitzi in front of her it would keep the flame of hope burning bright. Tears began to pool at the edge of Georgia’s eyes as she gazed at the photo strip, a touch creased and dog-eared at the corners. No surprise really, the photo had been taken about two months after the girls had first met, and that must have been six or seven years ago now. It was still one of her favourites, even after the thousands of photos they must have had taken together since, normally drunk and sporting smiles as wide as Oxford Street in some chi-chi London drinkerie with a tequila slammer in one hand and a boyfriend or unsuspecting male in the other. Both of them had always made the delete button on their iPhone Camera Roll their first port of call the morning after to delete
any incriminating evidence, praying that one of their gang hadn’t already uploaded some boob-out or knicker-flashing moment onto Facebook or Instagram for the world to see. As a tear rolled down her cheek, Georgia cast her mind back to their first encounter …

  ‘Your eyes are insane! They’re bigger than my face. They’re fucking gorgeously high fashion.’

  They were the first words Mitzi Bidgood ever said to Georgia Bellamy. Georgia had liked her immediately. She’d had a lifetime of people talking about her eyes. They were large. It was a Bellamy family trait. At school they’d been deemed odd; freaky, weird and googly by some of her mean girl classmates, but as Georgia grew older and into her looks, she had learnt the art of make-up from her mother. Sophia was a beautiful woman steeped in classic, vintage Bianca Jagger cool chic. Striking in an Italian Vogue kind of way, she was a head-turner, adored by Georgia’s father, Devon, and by every man she met. And when Sophia skillfully worked her make-up bag, it was cosmetic nirvana. There was no doubting that Georgia was her mother’s daughter.

  ‘Er … thanks,’ fumbled Georgia, trying to smile, acknowledge the girl next to her and still follow the rather athletic gyrations of the woman leading the Zumba class. ‘Although I’m not sure the sweaty leotard look is particularly big on Top Model this season but cheers.’ She looked over at the girl. Taut body, about the same age as her, eighteen she would guess, but whereas Georgia was definitely feeling the burn and perspiring in places she didn’t even know she had, the young woman lunging and whooping alongside her was a vision of sweat-free femininity. In fact she looked like she was barely out of breath.

  ‘I’m Georgia, nice to meet you.’ She leapt up to clap as she spoke, following the instructor’s movements.

  ‘Mitzi.’ A quick turn and swivel.

  ‘You make this look very easy,’ puffed Georgia. ‘I’ve got a stitch big enough to patchwork an entire quilt right now.’

  ‘I normally teach it,’ said Mitzi, smiling. ‘Zumba that is, not patchwork! I give lessons here three times a week. The room I use was needed tonight for some swanky business presentation so I told my group to join this one for the night.’ A quick shimmy to the left and a final holler as the routine came to an end.

  Mitzi reached over to shake Georgia’s hand as the music died and a sweep of applause circled the hall they were in. ‘You should join us. I’m a bit more hi-octane than this group and you’d love the girls. We have a lot of fun.’

  I swear her hands aren’t even clammy, thought Georgia as they shook. And was she actually wearing make-up? There was definitely eye-shadow and powder on show. How the hell…? Georgia’s face would have ended up looking like a painting that had been left out in the rain if she’d worn any make-up. ‘I may well do that, cheers.’

  Indeed she did. She was fascinated by Mitzi and the two young women hit it off immediately, sharing a love of dance music like Rihanna, Shakira and Kanye West as well as a love for fashion and beauty. Georgia joined Mitzi’s Zumba group the following week and often they would meet up both before and afterwards for coffee or cocktails depending on the hour and pore over celebrity magazines discussing their shared interests. Often they would be joined by the other girls in the Zumba group and suddenly it would be past midnight and they would all be crying with laughter in some salsa lounge or champagne bar discussing their dreams; whether it be a lusting for the bright lights of Hollywood or a far more worthy charity trek to some mud-baked corner of Africa. Mitzi dreamt of being a professional dancer. She had competed in, and had huge success with, dancing competitions around the country since she was five years of age and now that ballroom and Latin dancing were bigger and more popular than ever before, maybe the time would be right. Waltzes were no longer just the domain of grandparents at wedding receptions. Georgia dreamt of making her parents proud of her career, but, as yet, was not sure what to choose. She could guarantee it wouldn’t be the field of medical science (her father, Devon, had earned millions from that area and she was steering very clear). Her interest in molecular structure stopped at admiring the cheekbones of Jared Leto. Maybe her looks could help her secure a job in TV. She was intelligent, well-spoken and loved the glamorous world of celebrity. Perhaps TV would be perfect.

  Georgia adored spending time with Mitzi. Her friendship was infectious. She had such get up and go. Such a zest for life. She was an inspiration. In between her Zumba sessions at the luxury health spa the women frequented, Mitzi would head off to London for auditions, plan outfits for competitions and make sure she was seen at as many chic parties as possible. The word ‘networking’ was Mitzi’s middle name.

  Mitzi’s Zumba group was a wondrous melting pot of social movers and shakers. They all had money – the health spa was not cheap, it was only affordable to those with big figure bank accounts – and they were all connected. Actresses, models, debutantes, singers.

  It was those connections that eventually bagged Georgia her break into television about eighteen months later. One of the girls in the group was the younger sister of a TV executive who was looking to recruit for a new chatty breakfast news show. It needed to be fun, entertaining and the people on it needed to be total visions. Georgia, with a huge amount of cajoling from Mitzi, managed to badger her way into an audition and much to her surprise, she was offered a job as a weather girl. Something she had never thought about before. The thought terrified her. Mitzi thought it was incredible. A fact she couldn’t wait to tell Georgia as they toasted her new-found success over a jug of mojito.

  ‘You can learn on the job, and anyway the programme doesn’t start for a few months, so they’ll train you up. This is so cool, we’re both going to be on TV. I’ve just been offered a job on that telly dancing competition as one of the professional group dancers. I am officially going to be fox-trotting my way up that ladder. And some of the celebs they’ve had on there have been gorgeous. Did you see the former rugby star on this series? Just to-die-for …’

  Mitzi’s words slammed into Georgia’s brain as she stared at the photo. To-die-for. The horrible irony. Mitzi was right. The breakfast show had given Georgia the training she needed. She was the pretty face of UK weather. The shape of Cool Britannia with the news about the soaring temperatures. It was a job that she loved. And now the UK loved her. She owed everything to Mitzi. There wasn’t a moment that thoughts of her best friend didn’t fill Georgia’s mind as she smiled her way through the weather report from various outside broadcasts around London’s postcodes. One day she’d be reporting among a flurry of pigeons in Trafalgar Square, then motoring Bond-like down the Thames on a speed boat trying to report on a potential rain shower as she herself was sprayed with the fine mist of the UK’s most famous river. Then it would be off to report from the sixties cool of Carnaby Street or a Notting Hill street party with Pearly Kings and Queens by her side. Georgia loved it and she never stopped being grateful to Mitzi.

  Mitzi had climbed up the ladder on her show too, spending just one season as a backing group dancer. Her flare on the dance floor secured her a role as a regular partnered professional straight away. She always got the cute ones, indeed she was immediately partnered with a beautifully chiseled former football star. Good for a few months of loving. Then came her next season and her meeting with Foster. Their rhythms had synchronised in more ways than one. He’d been to-die-for …

  Georgia let out a sob as she considered the fate of her best friend and her lover. What had happened to them? Somebody had to know.

  Her misery was interrupted by a knock at her dressing room door. It was already open so there was no need for her to move. She turned and smiled, immediately a scarf of warmth wrapping itself around her.

  There he was, Charlie Cooper, her ray of sunshine. Her friend, her lover, her soul-mate and as of six weeks ago, her fiancé. Mitzi had been elated to hear their news just before she had disappeared, already plotting ideas for hen parties and bridal colour schemes. Mitzi adored Charlie, she always had. He was the roving showbiz reporter on Rise and Shine.
If a star was travelling from New York to Venice to get married or being arrested for a DUI or confessing to their inner demons, then Charlie was the man to be there. His ice white smile, wholesome everybody’s-best-friend demeanor and David Gandy model looks had earned him a legion of fans and admirers of both sexes. It was something he played on both personally and professionally. Celebrities loved talking to him. He was safe. And if it came with a wink and a cheeky flirt along the way then where was the harm in that?

  ‘Oh babe, I know it’s not getting any better, maybe there will be some news today.’ Charlie knew how fruitless his words probably were. He entered into the room and circled his arms around Georgia protectively. ‘The truth will out, it always does.’

  Georgia loved listening to him speak, his accent still softly twanged with his USA roots. Even though he’d been in the UK for the best part of a decade – thanks to the monopoly of Ryan Seacrest, his chances of becoming the must-have American host were minimal, hence the move to the UK – his frequent trips back home to see his family and for TV work made sure his accent never wavered. Georgia found it both comforting and totally sexy. It was deep and spiced with a hint of danger. The delicious thin line between best mate and bad boy. Her perfect type.

  ‘You think? I can’t bear it, Charlie. People are forgetting about Mitzi and Foster. It’s all so unexplained. I can’t let her memory just fade away. I can’t …’

  Squeezing his arms a little tighter, Charlie bent down and kissed Georgia on the side of her face. The touch of his skin and the presence of his strength made the misery inside her fade away. Just for a second, but it was all she needed. At that very moment, all was right with her life. A world in perfect harmony. Not a cloud in the sky. If only it could always stay that way. If only.