Lie For You

by Pippa Summers

  ‘Ha!’ Missie’s strokes with the make-up wipes became harder and more brusque, dark eyes flashing as she made her disbelief clear. ‘Ha!’

  I started to unpack my performance mentally, going back over every song and analysing how it might have sounded to the team. Noting the good moments and the difficult ones. There had been a few bum notes, perhaps, and some minor errors in timing. But nothing to explain why Damian was so agitated.

  The audience had loved it tonight; I had left them howling for more. What more did he want from me?

  One eye glittered back at me from under exotic layers of green and gold powder, still outlined in black kohl; the other eye was pale and red-rimmed now from Missie’s cleansing wipes. Both eyes blue, slightly bloodshot from that teary moment outside the dressing-gown when I had lost it.

  ‘Missie,’ I said, reaching for a handful of moisturising wipes myself and starting to clean the sparkly stage foundation off my throat, ‘did Damian tell you about this charity gig in Paris?’

  The petite Russian nodded. ‘Of course.’

  ‘What do you think about us going back to Paris?’

  Missie’s lips were pursed. ‘Nothing.’

  I frowned at the curt note in her voice, and threw the soiled wipes aside. ‘You think it’s a mistake, don’t you?’

  ‘To go back to Paris? The city where Lisette she died?’ Oblivious to her diabolical grammar, Missie took a handful of cold cream and slathered it over my face. I sat still, watching her work in the mirror; I looked like a fake ghost at Halloween, one of those white bedsheets with raggedy eye-holes. ‘Why would I think it bad idea?’

  ‘I don’t know, I merely assumed … But Damian’s right. I told him no at first, because I was worried how the trip would affect me. But now I can see why it’s important to go. It’s time I did this. I can’t keep turning down gigs in France just because … ’

  I heard my voice tremble and stopped, shaking my head.

  I thought it would be easier than this to go back to Paris. Like Damian had said, it was five years now. Time to lay my sister’s ghost to rest. I was going to have to harden up, and soon, or I would not be fit to sing at the charity gig.

  ‘Did you get me a car for tonight?’ I asked more lightly.

  Missie glanced at the clock on the wall. ‘Car will be outside stage door, thirty minutes.’

  ‘Thanks, you’re a darling.’

  ‘Hmm.’

  ‘I’ll see you at breakfast then. What time?’

  ‘No hurry,’ Missie reminded me, then scuttled round her back and began delicately releasing my beaded hair extensions. ‘Ten o’clock breakfast, Damian tell me. Then we check out of the suite.’

  ‘Heading to the airport?’

  Missie met my gaze in the mirror. ‘For Paris flight, yes.’

  I knew what was worrying her, because it was worrying me too. I had fallen apart after Lisette’s death. Total mental breakdown, the doctors had called it. It was Damian and Missie who had nursed me off Valium between them, then forced me into therapy. That process had taken a year, but at last I had felt able to step out onto a stage again, this time alone. Following that first shaky performance, Damian had built my career back up from ground zero. Not an easy task after the singing twin sensations had suddenly become a solo act.

  ‘I’ll be fine,’ I told her firmly, just as I had told Damian.

  ‘Hmm,’ she repeated.

  ‘I need a quick shower.’

  Missie leant forward and sniffed me critically. ‘Yes,’ she agreed. ‘You do.’

  Twenty-five minutes later I was ready to go, dressed simply in comfortable Armani jeans and a black Alexander McQueen panelled top, matched with a pair of red Converse trainers. Nothing like the tatty old jeans and vest tops I had worn as a teen, but it was about as close to a casual look as my wardrobe could manage these days. Someone knocked at the dressing room door as I was slipping on a leather jacket against the cool night air, and I automatically called out, ‘Come in,’ without considering that it might be Damian back again.

  Damian stuck his head round the door, studying my trainers and leather jacket with an odd expression. ‘There’s a car at the stage door for you.’

  ‘Thanks, tell them I’ll be right there.’

  That was clearly not the response he had been looking for. ‘Come on, where are you going?’

  ‘Mind your own business.’

  He sighed and leaned against the door frame, running a tired hand over his face. ‘I’m sorry if I offended you earlier. But I’m under a lot of stress right now. I just want to be sure you’re ready for what’s coming.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘A big album. More celebrity. A punishing tour schedule in the US next year, if I can swing it.’

  ‘Sounds good.’

  Missie bustled back into the dressing-room and halted at the sight of Damian in the room, her eyes critical. But she said nothing to him, merely handing me a twenty-pound note. ‘You owe me, yes?’

  ‘Thanks, Missie. I’ll pay you back tomorrow.’ I raised my brows at Damian’s incredulous look. ‘What? There are no cash machines round here. I asked Missie to lend me some money.’

  I kissed Missie on the cheek. ‘See you tomorrow.’

  ‘Don’t go to Paris,’ she told me, ignoring Damian’s irritated protest. ‘It’s bad idea. Stay here. Eat chocolate. Let someone else do this concert.’

  I looked at her, tempted.

  ‘It’s for a good cause,’ Damian reminded us impatiently. ‘Raising money for a rare genetic disorder. And it’s a birthday concert for a very sick little girl. You can’t call it off now.’

  I flinched. ‘Okay, I get the picture. But Missie’s got a point. Maybe I’m not ready to go back yet.’

  ‘You’re the little girl’s favourite singer. She has to spend a lot of time in bed, and she listens to all your songs. They make her feel better. Happier.’ Damian spread his hands wide in an apologetic gesture. ‘How could I listen to the kid’s father telling me all that, then ask him to find someone else?’

  I nodded, giving in. He was right. There was no way out of it now. And it would do me good to go back to Paris. Face the past head on.

  Missie said simply, ‘Shout if you need me, yes?’ Then she slipped out of the dressing-room, shutting the door behind her discreetly.

  ‘This is going to be a great trip. Do the concert, make the little girl happy. Then come back ready to lay down some new tracks.’ Damian rocked back on his heels, watching me. ‘How about it?’

  ‘Okay,’ I agreed.

  He grinned, then hugged me. ‘Fantastic, thanks.’ Then he hesitated, curiosity in his face again. ‘So where exactly are you going tonight?’

  ‘To visit someone,’ I said without elaborating, and kissed him on the cheek. ‘Goodnight, Damian.’

  I ignored his suspicious look.

  Some things in my life were marked private and personal. I wasn’t Lisette, and Damian was always going to be my manager, not my boyfriend.

  CHAPTER TWO

  I had rung ahead to make sure it was not too late in the evening for an unscheduled visit, but the nurse had assured me there would be someone on reception until midnight and that I was very welcome to stop by. It was highly unorthodox, but their cheerful agreement did not surprise me. It had been three months since my last visit, and about four months before that, thanks to the busy schedule Damian had me following.

  I remembered how delighted the care home staff had been to see me on both those occasions. One nurse had even unearthed an old CD insert for me to sign, a photo of me and Lisette at the start of our career, still dewy-faced teens, smiling into the camera with no idea of what lay ahead for us. One of the cleaners had asked for a selfie with me, and I had posed awkwardly with the woman next to her cleaning trolley. Everyone had been laughing and smiling and making sure I had everything I needed.

  I had got used to all the attention over the years. That was part of the lifestyle. But I did worry that the excite
ment of a ‘celebrity’ visit might be upsetting for the other residents, most of whom were very elderly and unsure of their surroundings.

  The nurse looked up from her magazine and smiled when she saw who it was ringing the night bell.

  She got up at once from behind her counter and keyed in the security code to open the door. ‘So lovely to see you again, Sasha,’ she said, a little breathless. ‘I’d better take you upstairs myself. Most of the residents are in bed now, and the lights are off up there. So the corridors can be quite dark at this time of the evening.’

  ‘How’s my Nan?’

  ‘She was poorly last month,’ the nurse said quietly, leading me up the creaking stairs to the first floor. At the top was a vast potted plant and another security door with frosted glass panelling and a key code. She tapped in the code, whispering over her shoulder, ‘Just a chest infection, but you know how quickly that can turn serious at their age. The doctor came to see her and prescribed antibiotics. But she’s been much better this past week. Sitting up in bed, reading.’

  ‘Reading?’

  The nurse looked apologetic. ‘Well, looking at the pictures in the glossy magazines. She doesn’t read anymore, poor soul. I don’t think she can recognise the letters. But she seems to like the pictures.’

  I knew that. All the same, I still sent my Nan postcards occasionally, with bright colourful photographs on the front of the places I had been on tour or holiday, and a simple message on the back. Missing you! love Sasha xxx

  I knew Nan would probably have no idea who ‘Sasha’ was, even if the nurse read her the message on the card and tried to explain. But I hoped that Nan enjoyed looking at the pictures on the cards at least. Or even just receiving mail. It was worth trying, that was what I had said to Missie when I explained what was wrong with my grandmother. Alzheimer’s. One of the cruellest diseases, it wiped a person’s mind until there was nothing left but the very earliest memories, the most primitive brain instructions we need to keep our bodies going from day to day. Remembering how to breathe was usually the last function to go. If a debilitating illness like pneumonia did not get you first.

  Lisette and I had been born and brought up in Birmingham. When we were seven, our parents had died in a coach crash on a Spanish holiday, both still only in their thirties. My grandmother – or Nan as we had always called her – had been looking after us that week. So she had just carried on from there, a widow in her sixties, suddenly bringing up two very noisy and energetic primary school kids on her own.

  I had no idea how Nan managed in those first years after our parents’ death. We must have been a total nightmare to look after, always playing pranks or misbehaving.

  My memories of my parents were vague and shadowy; sometimes I was not sure if they were true memories or fragments pieced together from old film footage. I remembered Mum and Dad at our fifth birthday party, singing, ‘Happy Birthday, Lisette and Sasha!’ then leaning into the camera, laughing as both of us competed to blow out the five candles on the cake. But I couldn’t remember what happened next.

  Now I would never know. Because Nan could not remember them either. She could barely recognise the name of her long-dead daughter, except in the odd lucid moment when she seemed like her old self again and could speak and respond coherently to questions.

  And those moments were becoming all too rare.

  The bedroom door was slightly ajar, a table-lamp casting a soft yellow glow inside. The nurse pushed open the door. ‘Mrs Charles?’ she said softly. ‘I’ve got a visitor for you. Your granddaughter is here to see you.’

  The woman in the bed stirred. Her head, with its springing cluster of white curls, turned towards the door. She was pale and thin-faced, but seemed alert enough, her eyes open, her frail body propped up against a bank of pillows.

  The nurse nodded to me. ‘She’s awake. Not more than half an hour?’

  ‘Thank you.’

  I drew up a chair next to the bed and took my grandmother’s hand. ‘Nan? It’s Sasha.’ The old woman looked back at me, no sign of recognition in the watery blue eyes. ‘I’m sorry I haven’t been to see you for a while. It’s been manic, touring again. But maybe you got my postcards?’

  No response.

  I glanced about the dimly-lit room and saw my latest postcard, propped up on the windowsill next to a small gilt carriage clock. It was getting late. I thought about tomorrow and the flight to Paris. There was no way I would ever admit this to Damian, but I was secretly apprehensive about the French trip. I had pushed that tragedy aside and got on with my life since Lisette’s death. What if it all came rushing back to haunt me as soon as I landed in Paris?

  Nan’s hand squeezed mine briefly. ‘Lisette,’ she whispered. ‘Lisette.’

  Wonderful. That was just what I needed.

  ‘No, Nan. It’s … it’s Sasha.’

  Nan’s eyes searched mine, innocent and puzzled. ‘Where’s Lisette?’

  She’s dead. She’s been dead five years.

  I couldn’t say that.

  Not to Nan.

  There was no way to explain it so she would understand, and I could not bear having to explain about the accident all over again, to relive that awful moment in Paris when I had asked them to bring a telephone to the hospital bed, and dialled the number with shaking hands. ‘Hello, Nan? It’s Sasha here. No, I’m still in France. I … I have some terrible news.’

  ‘Lisette’s not here today, Nan.’ I realised I was crying, and wiped my eyes with the back of my hand. ‘She couldn’t come this time. I’m very sorry.’

  Nan closed her eyes. ‘I want Lisette.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I repeated.

  Nan had turned her head and was staring at the framed photograph on the bedside cabinet. It showed her, already grey-haired, posing at the zoo with two smiling teenage girls, one on either side. Some roving photographer had taken it, I remembered, then charged us a small fortune for the print. We must have been about thirteen at the time, I thought, studying the photograph. Twin girls, identical shoulder-length blonde hair, identical blue eyes, identical slender-hipped build, even identical white T-shirts and blue jeans. Except one girl had an arm looped about her grandmother’s waist, and the other was standing slightly apart, her smile quizzical.

  Lisette had always been Nan’s favourite. It had never been said aloud, never shown overtly to either of us, but I had known all the same. It was always, ‘Where’s Lisette?’ when Nan wanted something done ‘properly’ as she put it.

  There was a book on my grandmother’s bedside cabinet too. An old red and black hardback, the words Alice Through The Looking-Glass written in gilt on the spine. I recognised it as one of the illustrated books I had brought from our old house before the place was sold. My grandmother used to read it aloud to us as kids, two girls sitting on either side of her on the sofa or cross-legged on the rug. She doesn’t read anymore, poor soul. I don’t think she can recognise the letters. But she seems to like the pictures. Perhaps Nan still liked to flick through those old books, and maybe the familiar illustrations jarred the occasional memory from the past.

  ‘I can’t stay long,’ I said softly. ‘I’m performing in a charity concert next week, and I have to fly abroad for it.’ I decided not to mention France or Paris, just in case she managed to make a connection with what had happened to Lisette there. I did not want to distress her. ‘First thing in the morning.’

  My grandmother sighed, then closed her eyes.

  It felt like a rebuke.

  I hesitated. ‘Shall I read to you for a little while, Nan? Would you like that?’

  No answer.

  I got up and fetched Alice Through The Looking-Glass, then perched on the bed next to Nan so she could see the illustrations in the light from the table-lamp, and started to read quietly.

  CHAPTER THREE

  I had never got used to being famous. As mischievous twin girls, Lisette and I had always been infamous at school, and later when we started singing together at local gig
s, it was obvious to everyone we were going to be well-known.

  But it was a massive stretch from local notoriety to international stardom, and I still found it surreal to be pounced on by some total stranger in the street, and hugged wildly or shrieked at with excitement, or given a spontaneous round of applause, as had happened once when I came out of a cubicle in the changing rooms at Debenhams. And though dark glasses and a headscarf went a long way to making sure such events were not as frequent as they had once been, I was constantly being reminded by Damian that I ought not to go out shopping alone anymore.

  ‘I’m hardly Madonna!’ I had protested at first, yet the shouts in the street and excited recognitions at the check-out counter still seemed to happen, regardless. Especially since I had started touring again.

  ‘People are curious about celebrities,’ Damian had told me calmly. He had managed several other stars before taking over their career, and had plenty of experience in the entertainment industry. ‘They get used to seeing your face on a television screen or in a magazine, and then they see you in the flesh and it amazes them. They can’t believe you are real. They don’t know you, have never even met you. Yet at the same time they feel they know you better than some of their own family.’

  ‘That’s ridiculous.’

  ‘All the same, try not to go out alone from now on. Take Missie with you.’ He had hesitated, watching me. ‘Or a boyfriend.’

  I did not have a boyfriend, and he knew that. But whether or not he was teasing with that kind of fishing comment, I was never quite sure.