Lie For You

by Pippa Summers

  ‘Non, Madame.’

  ‘Then off you both go, and let Mademoiselle have some quiet. She is a performing artist. She needs time to prepare.’ Missie clapped her hands at them both. ‘Shoo, shoo. Leave the drinks outside the door.’

  ‘Oui, Madame,’ Dupont said, eyeing Missie with new respect, and ushered the young man out before him.

  At last, the door closed behind the butler and his assistant.

  We were alone.

  I sank into the large swivel chair in front of the bulb-lit dressing table mirror and my unkempt reflection peered back at me in horror.

  I’d barely slept last night, and when I had managed to close my eyes, I had only dozed fitfully, curled up on an upright hotel sofa designed more for stately sitting than sleeping. And that lack of sleep showed. My skin was tired and pale, my lips dry. My hair was like a bird’s nest. I couldn’t stop yawning.

  ‘You need sleep,’ Missie said crossly.

  ‘I don’t have time.’

  ‘Of course you do.’ She made a bed for me on the chaise longue in the changing area, using her own jacket, and patted it invitingly. ‘Come on, lie down and close your eyes.’

  ‘But what about rehearsals?’

  ‘I’ll go and tell them you’re resting. I can wake you once everything is ready.’

  ‘I hope the marquee is up, and the staging … ’ I felt so tired, I wasn’t making much sense. ‘Damian usually does all those safety checks.’

  But Damian wasn’t my manager anymore.

  She clucked her tongue. ‘Hush, Sasha, don’t worry your head about any of that. I’ll find the marquee and check the staging. Now, come.’ I lay down on the chaise longue as ordered, and Missie covered me with something soft, then stroked my hair like Nan used to do when I was a child. It felt warm and comforting. ‘You’re the star, and you need rest. Nothing else matters.’

  I closed my eyes, and she tiptoed away.

  And I slept.

  When I woke up, I was confused, disorientated.

  For a moment, I couldn’t recall exactly where I was, or why, still deep in the world of my dream. I had been back in that terrible night again, chasing insubstantial figures through the rain, hunting for my lost sister and failing to find her among the faces in the crowd, hunting for Lisette among those gathered about the accident.

  Now those shadows fled, and reality returned. I’d taken a nap before the concert, that was all. Only Missie was nowhere to be seen, and the room was dark.

  I got up and fumbled my way to the door, where I could see light in the corridor outside. But there was nobody out there either.

  ‘Hello? Missie?’

  I looked up and down the corridor.

  ‘Hello? Anyone there at all?’

  No sound whatsoever. Nobody in sight at all. Tumbleweeds meme …

  Perhaps Missie had gone to get something to eat, I thought, which was fair enough. I was feeling a little hungry myself. I could hear a buzz of activity outside the house, so wandered barefoot down the corridor to the open balcony at the end, and peered down over the vast white concert marquee.

  It was still warm outside, but the sun was getting low in the sky, casting a soft orange glow over everything. Down on the ground, uniformed staff were coming and going in a whirl of frenetic activity, still carrying chairs and tables, or standing in small groups with clipboards and ear-pieces, as though checking sound levels or seating arrangements.

  I yawned and stretched, then ran my fingers through my hair, aware that it was slightly tangled from my nap. It would need some serious attention before I went on stage. Though I felt sure Missie would work her usual miracles with it.

  Where the hell was Missie? Where the hell was everyone?

  A phone began ringing nearby.

  Curious, I pattered on bare feet around the corner by the balcony, and down another long, sloping corridor. There were no lights on here, only daylight creeping in through high narrow windows. I had a sudden memory of being in this part of the ranch before, when I’d been invited here for dinner the first night we arrived in Paris.

  Jean-Luc’s bedroom was somewhere along this corridor. At the other end, I seemed to recall, suddenly panicked, and my steps slowed.

  The phone stopped.

  Then it began to ring again almost immediately, the low, steady buzz-buzz coming from a small room whose door was partly open. It sounded urgent.

  I peered through the gap of the open door, aware that I shouldn’t be intruding but too curious to stop now. It was dark inside the room, which looked insanely small, like a broom closet had been turned into a study. There was a phone somewhere inside, continuing to buzz with an urgent French tone I recognised from the phones in the hotel. Obviously, someone was determined to get through.

  I fumbled along the wall for a light switch, and found one. It was a dimmer switch-style light; I turned it slowly, and the overhead light came on.

  I stared into the room in silence.

  As I’d suspected, it was a personal office, with a simple desk and black leather swivel chair, computer and photocopier, and blinds drawn across one small window to exclude the light.

  There was only just room to swing a cat. A tiny cat, at that.

  The phone was on the desk.

  It was still ringing.

  The screen said, Appel Inconnu.

  Unknown caller?

  I picked up the handset, feeling awkward. ‘Allo?’ I said, instinctively using the French word to answer the phone.

  There was a short silence on the other end. Then a man’s voice said abruptly, in French, ‘Who is this? Where’s Jean-Luc?’

  ‘Erm … ’ Panicking, my French deserted me. ‘I’m sorry. This is Sasha. Jean-Luc’s not here right now. Can I take a message?’

  I made a face, rolling my eyes at how ridiculous that had sounded. Why on earth had I answered his phone? It was none of my business.

  The line went dead.

  ‘Nice to talk to you too,’ I muttered, glaring at the handset.

  So much for that.

  Then I looked up, and felt my jaw drop. I could not believe what I was seeing.

  On the wall opposite the desk was a display of overlapping photographs and newspaper cuttings, some with red pins in them, and strings connecting photographs to cuttings, and occasional words scrawled in black marker pen in French.

  I gazed at the photos, and my heart began to thump erratically.

  They were of me and Lisette. Photographs and newspaper cuttings of our car accident, from both French and English newspapers. Internet print-outs of reports, blog posts, tweets. And yet more photographs.

  I stood speechless, still clutching the phone handset, barely able to breathe as I took in the contents of the small room.

  What the hell was I looking at?

  It was like a shrine.

  One black and white photograph had been blown-up to massive proportions, then pinned centrally on the wall. It was a candid shot of me, lying unconscious in my Parisian hospital bed, presumably taken the day following the accident. I was lying flat on the pillows, wired up to a drip and various complicated-looking machines. Judging by the pale light filtering through an adjacent window, it was early morning. That first day in the hospital had been a blur, with many people coming and going, and the press constantly hovering. It was possible that a photographer had got through security early on and taken this shot without being noticed. Certainly I must have slept through his or her visit.

  I put the phone handset back on its charging cradle and moved closer to examine the wall of photographs. In the central shot, my eyes were closed, my head bandaged, and my face was still swollen and bruised, covered in dozens of tiny cuts from broken glass. I looked like a woman who had just been through hell, which was exactly how I remembered that night of the accident. Hell on earth …

  Beneath the photograph something was written in black marker pen with a bold hand.

  La cible.

  I studied the unfamiliar word for
a long moment, feeling like I was going mad.

  La cible.

  What did it mean?

  My French was good enough for ordering meals or directing taxis, and following very basic conversations, but it did not include this word. I tried saying, ‘La cible,’ out loud, but was still unable to work out its meaning.

  ‘Target,’ Jean-Luc Ressier said from behind me.

  I spun, ridiculously guilty.

  ‘Oh,’ I said, and felt myself blush with embarrassment at having been discovered wandering about his house without permission.

  Where the hell had he sprung from?

  I hadn’t heard his footsteps in the corridor, I was sure of it. The man must walk as silently as a panther, I thought, glaring at him accusingly.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘La cible,’ he said calmly. ‘It’s the French word for target.’ His smile was slow, his tone dry. ‘You’ll notice that target is a feminine word. Not wholly unsurprising, of course. But you can imagine the kind of lively debate it provokes in French feminist circles.’

  He must have been taking a nap too, I thought. Or been about to take a shower, perhaps. Wearing nothing but pyjama bottoms, Ressier lounged bare-chested against the wall of the study, one hand lightly on his hip as he looked back at me. That was when I realised he was barefoot too. Hence the lack of footsteps in the corridor.

  He seemed very cool, I thought. Considering that I was standing in what was clearly his private study, having discovered his secret cache of photographs and documents.

  ‘Those are photographs of me on your wall,’ I said, alarmed, but keeping my gaze firmly on his face. ‘Photos of me and my sister.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Photos of our car accident. And media reports.’

  ‘Yes.’

  I took a deep breath, surprised by his unfazed replies to my cold questions. ‘This is your room, Jean-Luc? You put these up on the wall? Just so we’re clear …’

  ‘Yes, this is my study. And yes, I kept those cuttings and put them up here.’ His candour surprised me. ‘I told you, I take a keen interest in what happened to you and Lisette. There’s no law against it.’

  ‘Well, maybe there should be,’ I said tartly, feeling creeped-out by his photo collection. Disappointed too. I’d thought better of him. ‘I mean, I get why you’re interested, I really do. The accident ruined your life too.’ I paused. ‘Except there are no pictures of your wife here. Only of me and Lisette.’

  He said nothing.

  I swallowed, unwilling to consider what that omission meant.

  ‘So what does Zena think about all this? Or Mimi?’ I’d raised my voice, I realised, finding it hard to stay calm. I remembered the vaguely hostile looks Zena’s nurse Mimi had thrown me on my initial visit here. Had she seen this room? ‘Don’t you think a display like this is a touch … obsessive?’

  ‘Nobody else comes in here. Not even Dupont.’ Jean-Luc straightened and strolled past me into the study. There wasn’t a shred of shame in his face as he glanced idly at the display, as though it were perfectly natural for him to have dozens of photographs of me and Lisette pinned to one of the walls in his ranch. ‘I have a large day office downstairs to which my staff have access. This study is near my bedroom, and is for my personal use only.’

  ‘Well, I found it easily enough. What’s to stop anyone else walking in?’

  ‘A key, of course.’ He turned, his brows twitching together in a quick frown. ‘This room is usually kept locked. How did you get in?’

  ‘Well, I didn’t break in,’ I said quickly. ‘It was unlocked.’

  His eyes narrowed on my face. ‘I was in here earlier today, looking for some documents.’ He hesitated, then shrugged. ‘I must have forgotten to lock the door on my way out.’ He paused again. ‘In fact, I suppose it’s possible that, subconsciously – ’

  ‘What?’ I interrupted him sharply. ‘Subconsciously, you wanted me to find your little stalker shrine?’

  ‘Hardly.’ Ressier raised his eyebrows as though mocking my angry comeback. ‘After all, I didn’t expect you to be wandering about the house on your own. Or I would have kept my – what did you call it? – my stalker shrine safely locked up.’ His dark eyes clashed with mine, and he looked me up and down, taking in my tousled hair, ‘What were you doing in here, by the way? Aren’t you supposed to be getting ready for the concert?’

  I lifted my chin, refused to be cowed by that demanding gaze. ‘I went for a wander. To stretch my legs after a nap. I … I heard a phone ringing and came in here.’

  He stepped closer. ‘You answered my phone?’

  I backed up in the tight space, my bottom hitting the back of his leather swivel chair. I was a little afraid of him, I realised with a shock. I thought I knew who Jean-Luc Ressier was and why he’d asked me here. To sing at his charity concert, to help raise money for research into the terrible, life-limiting condition that afflicted his child. But things had changed now. I didn’t know what he really wanted from me, not now I’d seen these photographs on his wall, arranged around the French word for ‘target’.

  ‘Yes,’ I said, a touch of defiance in my voice. ‘It was a man. I tried to get him to leave a message, but he rang off as soon as he heard my voice.’

  He picked up the phone handset and checked it, then shrugged. ‘One of my business associates, I imagine. He’ll call back if it’s urgent.’ His eyes rose to mine. ‘Meanwhile, you should be getting ready for the concert. Let me escort you back to your dressing room.’

  ‘Thank you, I can find my own way,’ I said, and made for the door, my heart beating fast as I considered what those photos meant.

  There were still no lights on in the dim corridor outside, and the soft glow of impending sunset from the high windows provided little illumination. I blinked, looking up and down, suddenly confused, then headed swiftly in what I thought was the right direction.

  I heard him locking the study door behind himself, then realised he was coming after me. Pursuing me, I thought, and broke into a run.

  ‘Sasha,’ he called after me.

  I ran, not looking back, rounded another corner, and saw a half-open door ahead of me. My dressing room at last? I pushed inside and shut the door to keep him out. There was a key in the lock, and a bolt. I stared down at them stupidly. That was when I realised it was not my dressing room.

  I had run the wrong way.

  I turned, and saw once again the vast, black silk-covered bed, big enough for three people, and the discreet wall lighting, plus an open door into his ensuite bathroom, with green-and-black marbled floor tiles and a bright mirror, reflecting light.

  He shouldered open the door, and I fell back, letting him in.

  ‘Are you crazy?’ he said, glaring at me.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I stammered, and tried to wriggle past him, to escape. But he refused to budge, blocking my path. ‘I didn’t realise. I thought this was my dressing room.’

  ‘It’s my bedroom.’

  ‘I see that now.’

  Jean-Luc looked at me silently, his face unreadable. Then clicked the door shut behind him, and turned the key in the lock.

  ‘Please … ’ I whispered.

  His eyebrows rose slowly. ‘Please, what?’

  ‘I’m sorry. Please let me go.’

  He said nothing, but put his hands on my shoulders. So lightly, it felt like a butterfly’s wings brushing me. Except the warmth of his fingertips burnt through me and left me breathless, unable to move or speak.

  Maybe I didn’t want to escape after all.

  ‘Sasha,’ he said hoarsely. Then his dark head bent and his lips touched mine, sending what felt like an electric shock through my body.

  That was when I felt like the twilight dream world I’d been languishing in ever since falling asleep in my dressing room fell away, and I woke up to reality. I was in La Retraite, the home of billionaire business tycoon Jean-Luc Ressier, who appeared to have a dangerous obsession with me and my sister, and he was kissin
g me.

  I should have fought him.

  But I didn’t. Because I wanted this. Wanted him. There was no doubt in my mind or heart about that. Dangerous or not, I had to let this play out.

  I had imagined Jean-Luc would be a rough kisser, strong and aggressive, rather like his business reputation. But his lips were soft and persuasive, slanting over mine with slow caution, a preliminary check that he was welcome, and giving more than they took. His hand cupped my cheek. The gesture was loving, not possessive, which surprised me even more. My lips parted in wonder, and his tongue met mine, playful at first, teasing me into taking a more active part in the kiss, then abruptly urgent.

  It was crazy, perhaps. I had only known the man a few days, and had only just discovered he had been there the night Lisette died, something he had kept hidden from Damian when arranging tonight’s concert.

  But I simply couldn’t help myself. There was something about him that I couldn’t resist. A strange familiarity, perhaps dating from that night in Paris, when he looked at me across my sister’s body, as though he’d imprinted himself on me at that moment, branding his essence deep into my subconscious. And now he was here again, with me in Paris, and it felt like life and death all over again, dangerous and yet somehow inescapable.

  The kiss made a brave new music play in my head: strong crashing chords soon segued into a melody that picked up speed, weaving harmonies about our racing heartbeats.

  Trapped in that wild music, I kissed him back. My hands gripped the back of his head and dragged him closer, suddenly obsessed with the short dark strands of his hair.

  He lifted his head slightly, looking down at me with heavy-lidded eyes.

  ‘Yes,’ I managed to say, the word coming from deep inside, not wanting to leave him in any doubt about my intentions.

  Jean-Luc said nothing but leant over me, his hand leaving my cheek to stroke slowly and luxuriously down my body. I gave a kind of strangled groan, urging him on with wordless excitement. I was in the clothes I had slept in, thin leggings and a sloppy loose T-shirt, casual wear to help me relax before the show, and his fingers tugged at the base of my T-shirt, slipping beneath without any protest from me.