Lie For You

by Pippa Summers

  LIE FOR YOU

  Pippa Summers

  LIE FOR YOU: First published 2019

  Copyright © Pippa Summers 2019

  All rights reserved.

  Pippa Summers has asserted her right under Section 77 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

  No part of this book can be reproduced in part or in whole or transferred by any means without the express written permission of the author.

  PROLOGUE

  Her sister was driving too fast. Too fast even for Paris, where everyone seemed to drive insanely fast whether they were in a hurry or not.

  The broad, elegant avenues of Paris were slick with rain, tarmac shining under the street lamps. Lisette switched lanes yet again with scant regard for the cars hooting either side of them. One glance at her sister’s face told Sasha everything she needed to know about Lisette’s mood. It also told her to be cautious. They had seven dates left to play on this European tour, and she needed to keep her sister from freaking out.

  But there were times when caution had to be ignored. Like when her sister was driving like a bloody maniac round the notorious Place de L’Etoile.

  ‘Lisette, for God’s sake!’ Sasha exclaimed, thrown sideways. ‘Slow down or we’ll get stopped by the French gendarmes. They have batons and tasers, remember. Probably unisex cells too.’

  ‘I’m not driving faster than anyone else,’ Lisette pointed out, but she slackened her pace a little, swinging down the Champs-Elysées.

  Trying to relax and enjoy Paris, Sasha caught the glimmer of street lamps reflected on water a few minutes later, and realised that they were driving alongside the River Seine. A bateau mouche was passing under one of the nearby bridges, one of the tourist cruisers, all lit up inside, music thumping out from the top deck, voices spilling out across the water. Some kind of late-night river party in full swing, she thought.

  ‘Look, the Eiffel Tower.’ Lisette slowed down briefly so she could stare out of her open window.

  ‘I was reading about it on the plane over here,’ Sasha said, peering up at it. The vast iron structure stood high above their heads, winking in the darkness like it was studded with diamonds. ‘It was built as part of the entrance to the World Fair in 1889. Some people hated it and wanted to tear it down. Others thought it was beautiful.’

  ‘Well, it’s certainly pretty big,’ Lisette said, then laughed when Sasha looked at her. ‘I’m not much of a tourist, sorry.’

  Lisette sped away from the centre, out through streets of tall, grey buildings, shops and apartment blocks with elegant façades. The elegance gradually faded into sprawling suburbs, with office complexes and all-night supermarkets, and well-lit cafés with their outside tables stacked up under striped canopies out of the rain.

  ‘Let’s go back to the hotel,’ Sasha suggested, uneasy.

  ‘In a minute.’ Lisette shook her head, her silver earrings catching the light. ‘First, I have to make a confession. It’s something bad. I should have told you before, but … ’

  She drove straight through a red light at a junction without stopping.

  ‘Lisette, slow down!’

  ‘I feel better when I drive fast.’ Lisette laughed wildly, her hair blowing all over the place as the wind whipped at it. ‘I feel immortal.’

  ‘Well, you’re not. And neither am I.’

  Thunder rumbled somewhere in the dark countryside beyond the city. Rain began to fall again, this time more heavily. The wiper blades flashed back and forth across the windscreen at a rapid pace. Lisette was not dressed for driving, still wearing the sleeveless, mid-thigh, gold lamé sheath dress she had been wearing on stage that night, bare-legged, driving in extravagant stage heels.

  ‘I love this city,’ Lisette shouted over the engine. ‘Paris, the city of romance.’ Holding the wheel with one hand, Lisette was leaning out into the rain, her eyes half-closed. The Aston Martin veered perilously across the middle of the road. ‘God, I could live here forever. Let’s do that, let’s live here forever. Never go back to bloody England.’

  Hidden by an avenue of plane trees, a sharp bend crept up on them in the darkness, not seen until too late.

  ‘Watch out!’

  Sasha made a grab for the wheel. But the car was already on the wrong side of the road, tyres sliding in the wet. Light suddenly dazzled her, oncoming headlights flickering through the rows of tree trunks.

  Sasha screamed, ‘There’s a car coming!’

  CHAPTER ONE

  Five years later, Arena Birmingham, England

  Jeff played the famous opening bars to our signature tune, and the audience went insane. I strode to the front of the stage in custom-made, six-inch platinum heels and held out my arms to rapturous applause, then bent to touch hands with all the fans screaming my name in the front row. Fingertips brushed mine, sweaty hands grabbed for my wrist. Flushed faces grinned up at me as the security guys moved forward, thrusting people back. Thousands of camera flashes seemed to go off in my face simultaneously, half-blinding me, smart phones held up like candles across the darkened arena.

  Fame.

  There was no other feeling like this in the world, I thought. It was a drug rushing into my veins, blowing out my cerebral cortex and leaving my breath suspended.

  Abruptly, I recalled other lights like these, dazzling in the darkness, the rain and wind in my hair, and shook the memory away with difficulty.

  I cupped a hand to my ear and leant forward. ‘Good evening, Birmingham, and thank you for that welcome,’ I said into the head mic, my breathless voice filling the whole arena. ‘Now let me hear you sing this first one!’

  As always, the first attempt was a groundswell of noise, a low shapeless rumble from a thousand hoarse throats. An ‘Ohhh’ that rose and fell, then sped up or got left behind, and became hopelessly contorted by the time it reached us on the stage. But the tune was in there somewhere, hidden amidst the chaos.

  I signalled Jeff to repeat the intro, then cupped a hand to my ear again.

  ‘What was that, guys? Never go back?’

  The crowd followed the notes enthusiastically, mouthing the words but still out of sync, the famous first line from our best-known song flailing around the vast Birmingham arena like a Mexican wave.

  Then the magic happened, as it always did. The song suddenly caught, leaping like flame across the auditorium.

  ‘That’s it!’ I started to clap to the rhythm, shouting, ‘Again! Come on, Birmingham, I can’t hear you!’ then gestured him to play the opening chords yet again.

  This time the audience was primed and ready for the line. The first words rang clear through the dazzling air, and I laughed, joining in with those thousands of voices…

  Never go back to where you came from.

  Never return to what you knew.

  Never say, ‘Yes,’ and risk it going wrong.

  Never let them get to you.

  Roughly three-quarters of a high-voltage hour later, I strode off stage as quickly as I could manage in six-inch heels. The shoes were to die for, but not made for speed. I was trembling with adrenalin, sticky from the heat, dying for a shower and a long cold drink with plenty of ice.

  Three curtain calls. Not bad. But then Birmingham was my home town.

  The drummer waved his sticks at me cheerfully. The bass guitarist high-fived me as I passed. I blew a teasing kiss back over my shoulder at him as I kept walking, and shouted, ‘Great work, thanks!’ over the thunderous swell of applause and cat-calls from the arena behind us.

  Safely out of sight of the audience, I disengaged my headset and tossed it to one of the backstage crew. ‘Thanks, Ricky.’

  ‘You’re welcome, babe. You set them on fire tonight!’

  Then I headed st
raight for my dressing-room, the adrenalin slowly draining from my veins, my head already somewhere else.

  ‘Sasha?’

  I did not turn, even when my name was repeated insistently. I was not in the mood to deal with Damian tonight. Not even remotely. He was only going to repeat the same request, anyway. And the answer was still no.

  But my manager was not going to let me walk away so easily. He caught up with me just as I reached the backstage row of dressing-room doors, his voice determined.

  ‘Sasha, hold up!’

  Broad-set and bull-headed, stubborn by nature, Damian could be a little intimidating at times. Like now, I thought, and stopped reluctantly when he jumped in front of me, preventing me from escaping into the sacrosanct privacy of my dressing-room.

  ‘Well?’

  Damian held up a hand but said nothing. He was actually on the phone to someone, I realised with incredulity. Trying to do several things at once as always. I held onto my temper with an effort.

  ‘I need to change, Damian. Can we talk later?’

  He muttered, ‘I’ll get back to you on that,’ then snapped his mobile phone shut and slid it into his trouser pocket. His hazel eyes bored straight into mine, cool and clever.

  ‘This won’t wait, Sasha.’ He smiled, then leaned forward to kiss my cheek. ‘You were fantastic out there tonight. The Brummies love you.’

  ‘Probably because I’m a Brummie too.’

  ‘No, you were brilliant. That’s why.’ He hesitated. ‘Look, I’ve got to talk to you about some last-minute changes to your schedule.’

  ‘Can we make it quick then? I want to get back to the hotel early tonight, grab some sleep before we hit the road again.’

  ‘You’re going to miss the wrap party?’

  I sighed at his accusing tone. ‘Okay, I’ll put in an appearance later. But I’ve got something to do first.’

  His eyes narrowed on my face. ‘Something wrong?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  Damian was a great manager. He did all the hard graft behind the scenes, setting up tour dates, hiring and firing members of my entourage, keeping my name in the papers, making sure we kept on top of recording contracts. But he was always there, guarding me from over-zealous fans, protecting me from bad reviews. He never knew when to back off and give me some personal space. I loved Damian for taking such good care of me. But he treated me like I was made of china, and I felt uncomfortable with that. Apart from one appalling period of my life, I’ve never been fragile.

  ‘It’s been a long tour, that’s all.’ I shrugged, trying to sound casual. ‘A few good nights’ sleep is all I need.’

  ‘I want you to be fresh for the recording studio.’

  ‘And I will be,’ I promised him, then abruptly decided to give him what he wanted. ‘Look, once we’ve done this charity gig, I’ll take a short holiday like you suggested.’

  ‘Good, that’s great news. I’ll let everyone know.’ It was what Damian had been pushing for. He ought to have been ecstatic. But he still looked unconvinced. Perhaps I had misread the signals and he had not followed me to nag me about a holiday after all. ‘Paul couldn’t book the Paris Ritz, by the way. He got us rooms at the Meurice instead.’

  ‘Couldn’t?’

  He hesitated. ‘I felt it best for us to stay somewhere else, if you must know. No need to bring back bad memories, right?’

  Something jangled in my head. A warning bell. But I ignored it.

  ‘That’s what you wanted to say to me?’

  ‘More or less.’ He scratched the side of his nose, like he always did when he had something to hide. ‘The guy who’s hosting the charity concert wants to have dinner with you tomorrow night.’

  I was annoyed but nodded. I did not want Damian to think I wouldn’t be up to playing the celeb once we were in Paris.

  ‘Okay, fine.’

  He was watching me closely. ‘You sure about that, babe? Because that was him on the phone. I could ring him back, blow off dinner if you think it’ll be too much on top of everything else. Though he was pretty insistent.’

  On top of everything else.

  He meant flying to Paris. He thought I was a flake. That I couldn’t handle going back there.

  ‘I said it’s fine.’ Then I found myself blurting out, ‘Look, you know touring has been hard on me since the accident. Standing up there on the stage every night without Lisette. Singing songs we wrote together and not hearing her voice right alongside mine. But I’m okay. I’m dealing with it. You don’t have to keep wrapping me in cotton wool.’

  I halted, seeing his startled expression, and willed the pain out of my voice. To my surprise, tears came into my eyes and I had to blink them away. I had not realised until that moment how stressed I was. But perhaps it was not so very amazing. We had all been working incredibly hard for months, night after night. Eventually something has to give when you live like that.

  Damian put an arm round my shoulder, hugging me close. ‘I’m so sorry, sweetheart. I miss her too. You know how close I was to Lisette. But it’s been five years since the accident, and you do still get … odd moments.’

  ‘She was my twin, Damian,’ I pointed out. ‘Time makes no difference when you lose someone that close. But I’m over the worst of it.’

  ‘Yeah, absolutely.’ He released me, but there was a strange expression in his face. ‘Things have changed between the two of us though. You ought to be careful about pushing me away. I don’t want us to get into a situation where we have to part company. Because you know what that might mean.’

  I stared, having absolutely no idea what that might mean, or in fact any clue what he was talking about.

  Damian made a face, then shoved his hands into his jeans pocket. ‘I have needs too,’ he muttered, not meeting my gaze. ‘The mortgage on my London flat won’t pay itself. This UK tour has been fantastic, but we need to move things up to the next rung on the ladder.’

  I stared, still not understanding. ‘What on earth do you mean?’

  ‘You’re already a big pop star in the United Kingdom, Sasha. But I could make you a global superstar with a US tour, massive sales, the works. For that though, you’ll need to start trusting me more. And listening to me when I give you advice.’

  The door to my dressing-room flew open, effectively silencing him. It was Missie, my Russian dresser and PA. Only four foot eleven and a size six, she stood in the doorway like a determined sparrow, one hand on her hip, the other wielding a coat hanger, long dark hair always caught up in an untidy chignon that looked artfully arranged. She was dressed with her usual classic simplicity, black jeans and a chocolate silk Yves St Laurent blouse. Her flat ballet pumps did nothing for her height, yet she still managed to look imposing.

  ‘Sasha,’ she said huskily, waving the coat hanger at me. As always, her English was a little inventive. ‘You have not forgotten appointment, yes? Because the clock, it is ticking. Tick, tock, tick, tock.’

  Damian frowned, turning to stare at me. ‘Appointment? What’s this? Who are you seeing tonight?’ As I stalked past him into my dressing-room, he made an impatient noise under his breath. ‘Is that why you’re missing the wrap party? I thought you said you were tired!’

  My PA, whose Russian name was so diabolically unpronounceable that she was known to everyone simply as Missie, arched her brows at him. ‘Good evening, Damian,’ she said pointedly. ‘This is not time for discussion. This is time for undressing. Yes, Sasha, please?’

  ‘Yes, Missie,’ I agreed, and gave Damian a smiling but defiant look, reaching round to unzip my sequinned top at the back.

  He opened his mouth to make some complaint, and Missie kicked the door shut in his face. Some things never changed. She had argued with Damian after he started dating Lisette, pointing out that we were only eighteen years old, and still made no secret of the fact that she did not like him. Not that Lisette had paid any attention to Missie’s disapproval. She had always got her own way, regardless.

  I don
’t want us to get into a situation where we have to part company. Because you know what that might mean.

  Having wriggled the fragile top over my head, I let Missie help me off with the rest of my stage outfit. The hook-and-eye catches on the back of my diaphanous, sea-green chiffon skirt were always tricky, and I had to stand still while Missie fiddled with them, swearing under her breath in Russian.

  My feet were starting to hurt after hours on stage, so I slipped off my heels one by one, taking care not to scuff them. Missie carried them reverently away like holy relics and brought back my silk dressing-gown and slippers, helping me into them. Sometimes having a dresser made me feel a bit like a baby, unable to do anything for myself. Other times I enjoyed her pampering, too tired after a show to do much but be pushed and pulled about as she undressed me.

  Not tonight though. My head was somewhere else, buzzing with a strange tension I could not quite place.

  You know what that might mean.

  No, I really didn’t. But Damian obviously thought I would. The puzzle nagged at me as I fastened the belt on my dressing-gown and slipped my feet into my comfy white-furred slippers.

  ‘Make-up,’ Missie said succinctly, pushing me towards the swivel stool in front of the dressing-table.

  I stared at myself in the mirror, still dazed after being on stage for hours, staring into the lights. The glare from the bare bulbs around the rim of the mirror were hard on my eyes too, but the bright light made it easier for Missie to work.

  Expertly wiping off my stage make-up, the petite Russian kept meeting my eyes, then looking away again.

  She muttered, ‘You should not let him treat you like that. The des-pic-able Damian.’

  For some reason I found myself defending him, even though I agreed with her. ‘Damian didn’t mean anything by it. He thinks I work too hard. He’s just looking out for me. That’s what good managers do.’

  Damian and I had been friends before the accident. Thick as thieves, my sister used to say when she started dating him, a flicker of disapproval or perhaps jealousy in her voice. After her death, of course, everything had changed. The whole landscape had shifted overnight and for a long time I had felt disorientated, unable to recognise anything in my life as having worth. Damian had been as out-of-focus for me as everyone else, and perhaps our friendship had never quite bounced back from that. But Lisette and I had been twins, together in the womb, together on stage, together everywhere. Then quite suddenly she had vanished from my life. Wiped out of existence. Nothing could have stayed the same after that.