‘Let go of me!’
I twisted free and stumbled backwards in the corridor, knocking the girl against the wall. She gave a little squeal of fear. But at least we were out of the room.
Damian took three hurried steps after me, then stopped, glancing down at the cocaine powdered across his dressing-gown.
‘Not a good idea,’ I said pointedly.
His face twisted as he shrank back into the doorway. ‘All right, I’ll make you a deal,’ Damian spat at me. ‘You can take her to your room. I’m not interested in the girl. But then you come back here. I haven’t finished with you yet.’
‘What’s the matter? Have I got you worried, Damian? Because you ought to be.’ I lowered my voice, wanting to scare him into leaving me and the girl alone, but not wanting anyone else to hear what we were saying. ‘Poor Lisette. You never gave her a choice, did you? Of course, everyone turned a blind eye to that sort of thing back then. It was part of show business. But I bet you wouldn’t like that juicy little fact to come out now, not in today’s political climate.’
His hands tightened to fists. But he didn’t move, an odd look on his face.
‘And while you’re at it, perhaps you can explain to the French gendarmes exactly what you were doing up here tonight, with an underage girl in just her knickers,’ I hissed, ‘and a ton of coke up your nose.’ He said nothing to that either, and I nodded in satisfaction. ‘Yeah, I didn’t think you’d be too keen on that idea either.’
I gathered Cherie up in my arms, and bundled her towards the door to my suite. ‘Goodnight, Damian,’ I threw over my shoulder, without looking back at him, and was relieved to hear his door slam a few seconds later.
It took me a moment to locate my key card in my clutch bag, then we were both safely inside the suite, with the door closed behind us.
The lights in the suite came on automatically, illuminating the spacious hallway that led into my sitting room. The bathroom door was open, a damp towel still strewn across the tiled floor from my shower earlier. I looked at the teenage girl, who seemed overwhelmed, not only by what had happened to her but by where she was – and with whom.
‘You want me to call the police, Cherie? Or maybe your parents?’ I spoke slowly, hoping she could understand what I was asking. I got out my mobile and mimed making a call. ‘Les gendarmes? Tes parents?’ I paused, seeing a look of horror dawn on her face. ‘Oui ou non?’
She blenched, shaking her head. ‘Non,’ she whispered. Then plucked her silver-blue dress from my slack grip, relieved me of her handbag too, and dashed into the bathroom.
I heard her being sick, and then the toilet flushing and tap water running. Unsure what to do for the best, I knocked on the bathroom door. ‘Cherie? You okay in there?’
‘Yes,’ she replied after a long pause, a touch sullenly.
‘Do you need a doctor?’
‘No.’
‘Can I get you anything, then? Something to eat or drink, maybe?’ I leant on the bathroom door. ‘I can ring down and order up whatever you like.’
‘I’m fine.’
‘Okay,’ I said, giving up. ‘Well, whenever you’re ready, come out and we’ll talk. Or you can go to bed. I’ve got some bottled water if you’re thirsty. And don’t worry, you can have my bedroom. I’ll sleep on the sofa.’
‘Merci.’
I hesitated, still concerned about the girl’s welfare. But I decided not to insist on barging in there and intruding on her privacy. I doubted she wanted one of her pop idols watching her throw up.
I glanced down at my phone. There was a text on the screen.
It was from Jean-Luc.
Thank you for your company tonight. Hope you got back safe. Let me know.
I hesitated, unsure whether I should reply or not. It was getting on for three o’clock in the morning, after all. But something told me Jean-Luc would still be awake, perhaps lying there in the darkness, waiting to hear back. He was that kind of man.
I keyed in the word, Safe, and hit Send.
Then I stumbled into the living room, kicked off my high heels, and threw myself down on the sofa, exhaling into the cushions.
I badly needed to sleep, my body numb with exhaustion. But I kept coming back round to Damian’s angry, contorted face, and his disturbing threat.
There are things I could tell the world about you too, Sasha. Things that could get you into serious trouble with the police.
It was nonsense.
So why couldn’t I shake off this creeping sensation of dread?
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
I ordered the car round to the hotel entrance early the next morning, secure in the knowledge that Damian would still be in bed, and gave Missie a call at six a.m.
‘Sasha?’ She sounded groggy on the phone, not surprisingly. ‘What is wrong? You are sick or what?’
‘I’ve fired Damian.’
There was a short, shocked silence.
Then she said something in Russian under her breath. A swear word, I suspected. ‘Hang on a second.’ I heard her coughing as she got out of bed and moved about the bedroom. When she finally spoke to me again, her voice sounded sharper. ‘So you get rid of Damian McDowell at last. Well, I never like him. Bad rubbish, that man. Only I do not think he goes quietly.’
‘No, I don’t think so either.’
‘You need me there? Right now?’ Missie uttered a short, anguished cry as she belatedly noticed the time. ‘Oh my God, it is only six o’clock. In the morning! You are crazy woman.’
‘Yes, I’m sorry it’s so early.’ I looked down from the window of my suite to where Paris was coming to life in a sweet, milky dawn. It had been almost impossible to sleep, not merely because I was curled up on a sofa instead of in my bed, which was currently occupied by Cherie, but because Damian’s strange threat had been worrying me all night. In the end, I had given up and decided to make an early start instead. ‘I couldn’t sleep. And I want to get out of the hotel and over to Ressier’s place before Damian is up. We can stop on the way for coffee.’
Missie understood at once. ‘This is a very good idea,’ she said wisely.
‘How soon can you be ready to leave?’
‘I’ll have to get everything together. Make-up, jewellery, your stage wear for tonight.’ She gave a yawn that sounded more like a groan. ‘I never eat breakfast anyway. So bad for you. Coffee only. This is the best breakfast for the body.’
‘How soon, Missie?’ I repeated patiently, glancing at the clock on the mantel.
‘You want me to come to the suite?’
‘No, I can’t risk Damian hearing us leave.’
Briefly, I explained what had happened last night. And that we might have a third party in the car with us this morning. After all, I could hardly leave Cherie behind when we left the hotel. Not under the circumstances.
Missie made a grunting noise of approval. ‘Let sleeping dogs to lie, yes. Nobody wants fireworks this early in the morning.’ She seemed to be waking up though, almost excited now. ‘So we do this, no problem. I meet you in the lobby in twenty minutes?’
‘Perfect, thank you.’
After ending the call, I wandered through to my bedroom, hesitating a moment before putting on the light. Though I didn’t want to wake the sleeping girl, I had little choice. Missie had my chosen outfit for the concert tonight, a tiny white number with a cut-out at the navel, where I would be sporting a glittering jewel. It would look stunning on stage. But I had yet to decide what to wear to Jean-Luc’s place, though it would be something casual, for sure. And I could hardly leave the poor young woman here to face Damian on her own. He would be in a towering rage once he realised we had cleared out early, and she would be an easy target for his wrath.
Besides, now that she was sober, there were a few burning questions I had to ask her. Like how bloody old she was, for starters.
Cherie stirred, turning over in bed to stare at me, then sat up, yawning. She hadn’t washed her face before going to bed and had been crying too.
There were mascara streaks all over the white pillows.
‘Hey,’ I said, perching on the edge of the bed and trying to sound friendly. There was no point going in heavy and scaring her half to death again. I imagined that last night had been fairly traumatic for the girl as it was. ‘How are you feeling? Bien?’
She nodded silently.
‘Look, I know it’s early, and you’re probably not at your best, but I need to ask you something. And I want an honest answer.’ I frowned; she was already looking evasive. ‘Honest, yes? This is important.’ I paused. ‘Do you understand?’
Again, she nodded without saying anything.
I took a deep breath, keeping my gaze fixed on her steadily. ‘So, exactly how old are you, Cherie? Remember, you have to be honest.’
‘Eighteen,’ she whispered.
I searched her face, still not sure I could trust her to tell the truth. ‘Can you prove that? Tu as … preuve?’
‘Oui.’ She reached for her handbag on the bedside table, and rummaged inside, producing a photo identity card. ‘See?’
I took the plastic card, checking the photo against her face, then checking her birth date and making hasty calculations.
Okay, she was definitely eighteen years old.
But only by a few days’ grace.
She had turned eighteen only a week ago.
Still, relief flooded me. Cherie was not underage. But while it might not be illegal, it was hardly acceptable behaviour for a man of Damian’s age and influence to be taking a girl like Cherie back to his suite. He was almost twice her age, for God’s sake. And she was probably still at school. The thought sickened me.
No, I’d done the right thing in sacking him. I knew that for sure.
But he could still argue that I’d breached my contract by severing ties with him when he had not done anything technically illegal.
There was the cocaine use, of course. But I would have to call the French police in order to prove that, and any evidence would be long gone by now. Unless the police forced him into taking a blood test. Which would probably mean Cherie taking a blood test too.
‘You took your dress off last night,’ I said, frowning. ‘Why was that?’
She rolled her eyes at me, and didn’t answer.
‘Did Damian hurt you?’
This time the girl looked shocked and shook her head.
‘So why were you crying and hiding in the bathroom?’ I asked her, puzzled. ‘You were upset when I arrived. Do you remember?’
‘I didn’t like that other one.’
‘Paul?’
Cherie made a disgusted face. ‘He wanted me to kiss him too. I said no.’
A threesome.
Thank God I arrived when I did, I thought grimly.
‘And did either of them give you any drugs?’ I asked gently. ‘Be honest. You’re not in any trouble here. I just want to know.’
She looked away, evasive again, and hurriedly shook her head. ‘Pas de drogues,’ she said, but I could see she was afraid.
I couldn’t put the poor girl through the ordeal of a police interrogation and a blood test. Not on top of last night. I didn’t know French law well enough to be sure, but she might get a criminal record for having taken hard drugs, and for what result? So I could sack my manager without any legal consequences?
No, I would have to deal with this myself.
With Damian.
‘Your parents must be worried sick,’ I said, handing the card back. She had her phone out and was looking at it. ‘You should call them.’
‘They don’t worry. I often stay out all night.’
‘All the same, I’m sure they’d welcome a text. Just to let them know you’re okay.’ I smiled when she nodded. ‘We’re leaving soon. So you’ll have to leave too. But we can drop you at home, if you like.’
I got up and drew back the curtains. Early sunlight came pouring in across the bedroom floor, a soft golden yellow. I saw her recoil from it, and smiled.
‘Come on, Cherie. Time to get up.’
We got past Damian’s suite without being spotted, and met Missie in the lobby, who was standing impatiently by the revolving doors, armed with several heavy bags and my chosen stage outfit in a sturdy plastic cover. The limo was already waiting outside, and within another five minutes we were on our way and safely out of Damian’s reach.
I sat back, able to relax for the first time since last night’s confrontation, and admired the cityscape as the sun rose over Paris.
Cherie cheerfully directed the limo driver to her home. By seven o’clock, she seemed to have recovered from last night’s trauma, chatting away to us about her two pet cats, and becoming almost ecstatic with joy when Missie offered to re-do her make-up and then gave her several freebies from the stage bag. I signed a couple of official photos for her, and posed with her for some selfies, giving her permission to post them on Instagram.
On the journey, I watched Cherie closely, but could see no sign that she was upset. And she was technically an adult, even if only just.
Still, I asked for the girl’s phone number and email address, so I could check up on her later. The whole thing felt like my responsibility. She was a fan, and Damian should never have taken her back to our hotel like that.
We dropped the girl off at an uninspiring block of flats in one of the outer Parisian arrondissements, waited until she was safely inside the building, and then drove back onto the Boulevard Peripherique, heading for Jean-Luc’s place outside the city.
‘Nice child,’ Missie said, settling back in her seat. ‘And she was the one with Damian last night?’ When I nodded, she gave me a long look. ‘How old?’
‘Eighteen.’
Missie made a harrumphing sound, and I grinned.
‘I know, she didn’t look it. But I saw her identity card.’
‘Fake, probably.’ Missie yawned delicately, stretching out her arms. ‘Ah, who cares? She met you, she took photos, she was happy.’
I did not reply, but studied the French countryside whizzing past us instead, the long pale fields of wheat, seed-headed crops growing tall, hazy with sunshine.
There are things I could tell the world about you too, Sasha. Things that could get you into serious trouble with the police.
‘Sasha? You have sad face.’ Missie leant forward, peering at me. Her voice grew concerned. ‘What’s wrong?’
I shook my head. ‘It doesn’t matter.’
Missie did not press the question. But her lips pursed together, and I could see she didn’t believe me any more than I believed myself.
‘How long before we get to this Retraite place?’
I shrugged, checking my phone. ‘Half an hour? Maybe longer?’
‘So, better get some sleep,’ she told me, and tutted when I refused, too restless for a nap. ‘You have big concert tonight and bags under your eyes. How am I supposed to disguise this?’
‘Plenty of foundation and half an hour with a slice of cucumber on each eye? That’s your usual remedy for my late nights.’ I laughed at her outraged expression, and blew her an affectionate kiss. She always knew how to distract me from my problems. ‘What would I do without you, Missie?’
‘You would look like dog’s dinner,’ she said bluntly.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
To my immense relief, it seemed that Jean-Luc was out with Zena when we finally arrived at La Retraite. His staff soon made us welcome, however. His sturdy-looking butler, Dupont, bowed low as he met us at the entrance. ‘Bienvenue, Mademoiselle,’ he murmured, flicking an assessing glance at Missie as he straightened, a look which was met with pursed lips. ‘Madame.’
‘Hmm,’ Missie said, studying him.
‘Unfortunately, Monsieur Ressier is not at home and will not be back until this afternoon, which is when you were expected to arrive.’ The accusation in his voice was unmissable. ‘I rang Monsieur Ressier as soon as I saw your car approaching. He is in Paris, celebrating his daughter’s birthday lunch with family, and sends
his deepest apologies.’ He paused. ‘I am to see to your needs in his absence.’
Of course, I thought, instantly remorseful. It was Zena’s eighth birthday today. In the busy chaos of this week, I had completely forgotten her special day. Though thankfully Missie and I had picked out a gift for her while shopping yesterday, and had it gift-wrapped.
‘I will be the only one seeing to Mademoiselle’s needs,’ Missie told him tartly, her arms full of bags, ‘Mr Whatever-Your-Name-Is.’
‘My name is Dupont.’ The butler relieved the petite Russian of her bags, handing them to a stiff-backed young man to carry, a kind of Dupont Mark II in a matching suit, before bowing again, this time even lower. ‘It shall be as you wish, Madame, Mademoiselle.’ He gestured us to follow him, his face a mask of pure disapproval. ‘This way.’
Dupont and his bag-laden assistant led me and Missie through various lengthy sets of corridors and floors in his vast, strangely constructed house, until we reached the area set apart for our concert preparations. Dressing Room: SASHA was the sign on the door, with a huge gold star, with ‘Privé’ underneath.
‘We shall need someone on the door,’ Missie ordered Dupont as she wandered about the door and examining the brightly-lit dressing table and adjacent changing area with an experienced eye. ‘A guard, you understand. To keep away autograph hunters and paparazzi, all that riff-raff.’
‘Oui, Madame.’
‘And a tray of bottled water. And a large pot of coffee.’ Missie turned to him sharply. ‘Strong coffee. Proper coffee, yes? None of this weak washing water rubbish.’ She tapped her chest. ‘It’s for me. Not Mademoiselle. She only drinks water before singing.’
‘Bien, Madame.’
‘And keep this corridor outside clear at all times, except for the guard. Mademoiselle needs peace and quiet to prepare.’
Dupont bowed again silently.
‘Most importantly, do not allow Mademoiselle’s manager, Damian McDowell, access to this room. He is no longer her manager.’ Missie raised her eyebrows at Dupont’s look of surprise. ‘You have some comment to make?’
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