Page 2 of Tell Me Your Lies

TWO

PRESENT DAY

Lies, lies and more lies is how I recall my childhood. My grandparents told me stories to make me believe I was just like my dad or walked just like my model mother—it had been a group conspiracy. I forgave my parents years ago and as I became successful in my own right, that part of my life as their daughter faded into a past I’d rather forget. These days we tolerate each other and I know how to play the role of a dutiful daughter but I’ll never forget the deception. Not taking someone’s trust for granted has become a good lesson in life.

I live alone and since that night, have never returned to reside in the family home. My life has changed completely. It’s been a constant struggle to make ends meet, by working my way through college and taking any job that came my way. I soon discovered that hard work never hurt me and in fact made me more determined to succeed. Refusing to take money from my parents has always been my personal form of rebellion. Once I graduated, I worked for seedy publications and placed myself in constant danger collecting information and feeding it to professional journalists to build their headline stories. It took a year or so before my career into journalism flourished. My articles were picked up by the tabloids and soon I found myself plunged into the shady side of celebrity lifestyles.

My hunger for research and my column on the lives of the rich and famous led me into ghostwriting. Trust me, some of the secrets I’ve discovered would make your hair stand on end. The juicy secrets lurking in people’s backgrounds make my job incredibly exciting—as is sitting with a person I’ve only seen on TV as they tell me stories about their past. Their egos embellish everything, so discovering the truth, removing any potential court cases from their reveals and adding enough scandal to make their tell-all biographies a bestseller is what I do. I always tell them nothing can shock me, and nothing has so far, but maybe that’s because my own secrets are a horror story.

Becoming a ghostwriter and living with famous people for the duration of the book, I’ve discovered the concept of everyone in the world being connected to everyone else via a chain of social connections in a maximum of six steps is true. This being the case, the odds of finding my birth mom are realistic and I’ve decided to find her after all. Call me crazy but I’m curious how she became a victim. Why was she out all alone at night? Knowing my birthdate and going back between nine and ten months, I’ll be able to find news stories about my father’s chilling crime spree but I’m guessing my mother’s name will remain elusive. My thoughts are disturbed by my phone ringing. “Hello.”

“Alani, have I got a deal for you.” My agent Christine Verity’s chair squeaks as she rolls it across the floor of her office. “Isabelle Croft’s agent called. She wants you to ghostwrite her memoirs. Can you imagine delving into her dark secrets? The fee they offered is four times what you received for the last book—and you get to live in their Florida mansion for the duration with her and her husband. Oh my God, do you know who he is—Linc Boswell. I’m drooling. You must find some excuse for me to meet him. He is sex personified.”

I consider living close to my parents again and get a bad taste in my mouth. I stare out the window watching the New York traffic below my apartment. It would be interesting—the famous actress Isabelle Croft has been entrenched in scandals, missing people and court cases. Her husband is a bad boy rock star, who is adored by millions and was suspected of murder at one time. Just being in that company could be dangerous—even life-threatening. The stories floating around about that family are never-ending.

“Alani, are you still there?” Christine drums her long acrylic nails on the desk. “Alani, this is a deal of a lifetime.”

My attention moves back to the call. “Do I get a bodyguard? I’ve read about the scandals and court cases. Can you ensure my safety?”

“Oh Alani, I’m sure that’s just hype.” Christine pauses dramatically. “Although the place is a fortress. You will be locked inside. Is that going to be a problem?”

Locked inside a house with a possible murderer and a movie star who has lost her grip on reality—I shudder at the thought—but I need the money. Is it a risk I’m willing to take?

“Alani?” Christine clears her throat. “We need this contract. I don’t have anything else to offer you.”

I sigh. “So no one else will take it, right?”

I must be mad to accept but my columns don’t make enough for me to live on and moving out of my apartment for a year or so means I’ll be able to rent it out. “Okay, I’ll do it, but I want my own room with a desk and peace and quiet. I’m never sharing a room with a teenager again like the last one.” I pause, thinking. “We can get five times the amount. The last one has been number one on the New York Times bestseller list for six weeks. I know Isabelle’s will be longer, much longer. I do recall most of the scandals around her. I’ll also need access to her lawyer, free of charge, to make sure no one is going to sue me or her for defamation.” I sigh. “You’re the best. You can swing this for me—for us.” I chuckle. “I’ll do my best to set up a meet with Linc. My dad is actually Isabelle’s plastic surgeon and they live close by. Not that he’ll give me any inside info.”

“I’ll see what I can do but I’d walk through fire to meet Linc.” Christine sighs. “Isabelle is so lucky to have married him. I might be able to swing the deal, as she insists on having you. If I can get her to sign a contract, when can you start?”

I stare at the calendar on my computer screen. “I’m not sure. Get the deal first and then we’ll discuss a time frame. I have a few personal things to do before I start another book.” I lean back in my chair. “It will be as soon as I’ve packed up here and leased my apartment. I’ll ask Willow if I can use my old room as a base. I should have everything arranged in about two weeks, if she is anxious to get started.”

“She is. She wants her book published before her rival, Anne Birchwood. The latter is crowing she has a tell-all on the way but I can’t find out anything about it at all, so maybe she hasn’t found a writer yet.” Christine chuckles. “This one is going to fly, maybe I’ll ask for the fee plus a percentage of the royalties. They can only say ‘no.’ I’ll call you back when it’s done and you can sign the paperwork.” She disconnects.

I smile and set to work finishing my latest column. I send it to the editor and do a quick search on Isabelle Croft. Three kids, a famous rock legend husband, and a massive estate in Florida. I find images of the husband, Linc Boswell, wearing black leather and straddling a motorcycle, his sons both handsome, standing beside fast cars, or on boats. As Isabelle is one of Sam’s patients, no doubt he gave her my name. I lean back in my chair taking it all in. A complicated family with so many secrets. Will they bring me into their confidence or play their cards close to the vest? It’s the honesty and subtle nuances that make a memoir great. It’s a sprinkle of intrigue and a spoonful of humor that makes a bestseller. What will it be like living with these people? Their type of wealth is intimidating, although my adopted parents did give me a good upbringing with all the trimmings to fit in just fine—gated communities, private schools, and lies.

THREE

Isabelle

If you believe that living with a bad boy rock star would be incredible—then think again. I’m married to Linc Boswell, the lead singer of Blood Orchid. The sexy smile he flashed in high school only for me belongs to other women now. The sexual magnetism that attracted me is shared. It makes other women scream his name and throw themselves at him. As he moves into his forties, he looks better than ever. His rock-hard body and smoldering gaze are every woman’s fantasy. He thrives on their worship and I drown in it. He’s away for months at a time on the road, touring, and although he often calls me, there’s always a party in the background. When he eventually comes home, smelling of another woman’s perfume, he tells me so many women hug him, it’s inevitable he’d smell like them and yet he always has an excuse for not answering his phone at night. I no longer trust him and it’s ruining what relationship we have. As he writes more hit songs, and fills venues, it’s as if the age gap between us is dramatically widening.

I look back to the time when we were high school sweethearts. I loved him so much and when he sang to me, it was as if I could see his soul. He’s always been magnetic and had women falling at his feet but he loved me and only me. I drifted through high school on a cloud. It was him and only him—and soon I was pregnant but I didn’t worry. I knew he’d marry me. Our first son arrived when we were eighteen; another son and a daughter came close behind. His influence made me a movie star but now I’m washed-up. A faded rose, with bruised petals, and he’s gorgeous and stuck in his thirties. I can never compete with his adoring fans. Sure, we live in luxury and could never spend his fortune but I want the old times back. I crave the look he’d give me when I watched from backstage and the nights in seedy motels. I used to be his passion, his world, and now I’m just an afterthought. Every reporter who sticks a microphone in our faces only wants to know about him—his life and his career. It’s never about me.

I need my side of the story written, so people discover the truth about him. Will it ruin his career—our marriage? Do I care? I hired a new ghostwriter after the other one didn’t work out—and this one will write what I tell her and not go sneaking to Linc and my kids to write her own truth. This one, Alani, has written books for many celebrities more famous than me. I needed to pull in a favor to get her to work for me. I need someone I can trust because there are secrets in both our lives I never want revealed. I have a plan to control the situation, but if I fail it will mean the end of my marriage and my life as I know it.

FOUR

TWO WEEKS LATER

Alani

After signing the contract, the most difficult part of all this was contacting Willow, my adopted mom, to ask if I could use my old room as a base. Staying at someone else’s home is all well and good until you need time for yourself or a place to escape to. I’ve learned this over the last few years of working with high profile clients that some of them can be suffocating. Going back to live with my adopted parents will likely be uncomfortable too but Willow’s excitement calmed my nerves. I’ve visited them numerous times since leaving college, and although the sting of their betrayal still lingers, I figure they do love me in their way.

I sent all my belongings ahead to my parents’ house and only have carry-on baggage. I plan to hire a vehicle but as I leave Florida International, I’m surprised to see Sam, my adopted father, casually leaning against his Mercedes. I walk up to him and give him a hug. “I had planned on hiring a vehicle. I’ll need one to do research for one of my books.”

“You can use my Range Rover. I rarely drive it anymore. It’s perfect for long or short trips.” Sam opens the trunk of the Mercedes and I hand him my suitcase. “Your mother is so excited to have you around for an entire year. I’m so glad Isabelle decided to use you for her memoirs.”