Page 7 of Tell Me Your Lies

The first room we come to is the recording studio. It is larger than anticipated. One area with soundproofed walls is set up with the band’s musical instruments, microphones and all the paraphernalia they require to make music. Attached to that room is a booth surrounded by glass. A console with mixing boards glows with LED lights. My attention is immediately grabbed by the display of vintage guitars and a wall of autographed memorabilia. I want to linger and soak up the atmosphere. Although the room is clean, the smell of sweat lingers, like in a gym. I can feel this is a place where secrets whisper in the music. Legends are born here. The hairs on my arms stand on end as the electricity hanging in the air washes over me as if the room refuses to let go of the last note. I look at Allison. “This place is amazing. It has so much atmosphere it’s giving me goosebumps.”

“Yeah, I know—they make magic in here. Wait until you see the next room.” Allison leads me into the hallway and we enter a home theater. “This is where they go to relax.”

I’m mesmerized by the indulgence in this room. I run my hand across the back of a line of tiered leather recliners set before a screen the size of a billboard. As I walk inside the door, I notice a popcorn machine beside a glass-fronted refrigerator stacked with every type of refreshment. I turn to look at her. “This place looks like fun.”

“There’s more.” She heads back along the passageway and takes another staircase deeper into the bowels of the house. At the bottom she throws open a door to display a bowling alley.

I stare at the polished lanes and pins set up and waiting for the next ball to strike. I can almost hear the balls rolling down the lanes and the crash as the pins fall. I walk inside and take in the jukebox in one corner and a full-length bar along the back wall. To one side are bowling shoes lined up in sizes on shelves. Beneath are balls, all in a line, glistening under the lights. “Oh wow.”

“If we head upstairs now, I’ll show you the spa wing.” Allison heads back along the hallway and up the stairs. “The spa wing is where Isabelle spends most of her time.”

I follow her back through the house and out into the garden and along another pathway until we come to a large exterior building. When Allison opens the door a wave of humid sandalwood fragrance hits me. She indicates toward an infrared sauna. The next room is a massage room and the smell of exotic oils leaks out into the hallway. Inside I count four massage tables and a counter filled with expensive oils and lotions. We head outside into the hallway and it opens up into a plunge pool surrounded by flowers and mood lighting. The extravagance takes my breath away. I bend to smell the flowers and then straighten as Allison turns to head back outside. Lucas’ words keep running through my head. Isabelle wanted me to do the tour to see the luxury she has around her. She flaunts her wealth and position. Is this the illusion that Lucas was trying to warn me about?

I hurry to catch up with Allison just as her phone rings. She walks away from me and takes the call. My gaze moves over the tropical garden and I notice there is not one weed or anything that shouldn’t be there. Every single plant looks its best as if any that don’t comply with the standard that Isabelle sets are removed and replaced—I’m wondering if that’s what happened to Jenny. Was she removed and replaced? And will I suffer the same fate?

“Isabelle is ready for you now.” Allison’s false smile concerns me. “She will speak to you in her dressing room.”

I quickly check the battery life on my phone, glad that I had charged it this morning. I intend to record everything that Isabelle says. I have a digital recorder I usually use. It’s easier to store the large amounts of data I need when writing memoirs, but it’s in my luggage and I have no idea where my bags are at the moment. “Will you be able to show me my room before we go and see Isabelle? I need to grab a few things before I interview her.”

“Yeah, it’s pretty much on the way.” Allison leads the way to the upper floors. “Your room is down there. It’s a corner room but a good size with lots of light. It’s usually for Mia’s friends to stay over but it hasn’t been used for a time. Mia prefers to go out. She rarely brings anyone home.”

Interested, I look at her. “Is she a party girl? I don’t recall reading anything about her in the newspapers. When I researched the family, I didn’t find too much about her at all in any of the magazines or in the media.”

“I’m sure Mia will be able to tell you about herself.” Allison shrugs. “She doesn’t like publicity and finds all the trappings of wealth boring. I figure she’d rather live in a commune somewhere.”

I head along the plush carpet to my bedroom and fling open the door. The room is light and airy as I requested. A TV hangs on the wall at the foot of the bed. A large desk is positioned under the window and there’s plenty of room inside. I’m surprised to see my belongings spread out across the room. I go to the closet to find my clothes hanging neatly on the hangers. My purse is on the bedside table and the digital recorder and my laptop sit on the desk along with my notebooks. One of them lies open as if someone was disturbed while reading my research. No wonder Isabelle needed so much time; she’s rifled through my belongings. I feel suddenly exposed, as if my privacy has been invaded. I cast a look back at Allison. “Someone has unpacked my things. Is that something that usually happens in this house?”

“Not unless it’s specifically requested by a guest.” Allison frowns as she walks into the room. “Hmm, Isabelle must have ordered it but I know nothing about it.”

Unsettled, I pick up my digital recorder, a notebook and pen and follow Allison along the hallway. We take another flight of stairs and she leads me to an open door and waves me inside before turning to leave. I peer into the room and the world tips sideways a little. Isabelle is dressed as if she just stepped from the Mayflower. As I’ve been researching her, I recognize the historical character from the very first movie she ever made.

“Come in, come in. Take a seat.” Isabelle waves me to a chair in front of her. “Let the interrogation begin.”

The accent is English and her eyes flash at me in a challenge. If getting into character unlocks a few memories, so be it. I gather my cloak of professionalism around me and give her a nonchalant smile. “I hope it will be more like a conversation between friends.”

“I’m afraid we’ll never be friends, Alani.” She walks behind me, turns the lock on the door and drops the key into her ample breast before sitting opposite. “There now, no one can overhear us.”

A shiver runs down my spine. Who locks people in a room? I try and control my racing heart by taking a few slow deep breaths and look at the satisfied smile crossing her lips. She has me right where she wants me. This woman is eccentric but is she dangerous?

ELEVEN

Isabelle

Okay, so I admit it. I like to intimidate people. Most times it’s not too difficult. My fans look to me as an example of what they could be if they tried hard enough. Linc’s fans look at me with envy. Every one of the women want to be in my position. They look me over and wonder what he sees in me. I know they’re jealous—but he’s mine. They’ll never have him. The press that hounds me are obtrusive but lately all they want to talk about is Linc and sometimes Lucas. It’s as if I’m old news. This is one of the reasons I decided to write my memoirs. So many stories are running around about me, most of them true, but I want my truth out there and some—I want it like it used to be, with me in the spotlight and if it takes a few lies to do it so be it. The thing is, I don’t seem to intimidate Alani. She speaks her mind and already has Linc curled around her little finger—or so she believes. I’ve watched the game he plays for twenty-seven years. He’s always in control of any situation. It’s infuriating.

Alani sits before me with nothing more than a recorder. She has no planned notes and it’s as if we’re just having a chat. She is the most confident young woman I’ve ever met in my life. Fame doesn’t impress her but I guess that being raised in an influential family, mixing with the rich and famous doesn’t worry her at all. Unlike Jenny, who dug up every small piece of dirt on me she could find, I believe I can control Alani to some extent and make sure she doesn’t go looking into places I don’t want her to go. We’ll concentrate on what I’ve done in my career and add all the heartbreak I’ve had to go through, seeing the women hanging all over my husband when he’s on tour and the front-page stories about his sex life. Jenny wanted a book that reflected the tabloid stories, but the focus was always on Linc, never on me—this is why she needed to go.

TWELVE

Alani

Totally exhausted, I step into the hallway and make it back to my room. I collapse in a chair at the desk, my mind whirling from listening to Isabelle. The woman is desperate for attention. It seems to me the shine went off her in Hollywood and she no longer gets offers for any roles whatsoever. This alone gave her the idea to get her memoirs written to bring her back into the public eye. Not one word of what she told me is anything about her family or how she met Linc. She didn’t even mention the children until I prompted her about them. She promised to save the juicy details about meeting Linc and the birth of her children, although she had mentioned a few things, most I’d gleaned from our breakfast meeting and the brief conversation with Lucas. There’s one thing I need to follow up on and that’s when she hit the headlines claiming that someone had kidnapped Mia on the night of her high school prom. The thing is, I went to the prom and I don’t recall anything happening that night at all. The spread in the newspapers on the following Monday had been a complete surprise. It’s an interesting story I need to dig into to discover the facts.

I set up the recorder on the desk, put on my headphones to listen to the interview again, fast forwarding past the boring bits. Unfortunately, Isabelle’s story is exactly the same as just about everyone else I’ve interviewed for memoirs. It’s funny how they all have impoverished starts in life or come from abusive childhoods and needed to work bussing tables to get by while they waited for callbacks from auditions. Unfortunately, when it comes to Isabelle, it’s all lies. Living in this community, I’ve heard many stories of how Linc got her a part in a movie by investing in it. It wasn’t her talent, that’s for sure.

The majority of people in the world don’t have a career handed to them on a silver platter, they work darn hard to get where they are, so her story isn’t very interesting. I will lose readers on the first chapter if I dish up this garbage. When I consider the biographies written about some of the famous stars, especially those in the 1930s and 40s, the scandal of the casting couch was rife. What it came down to was how low a person could stoop to get a walk-on role in a movie in the hope that it would skyrocket their career. Those stories people like to read, and anything about affairs, scandal or hidden secrets—or a child that suddenly pops up out of the blue.

The last rock star I wrote about told me that he couldn’t remember half the people he slept with so if any child happened to arrive on his doorstep, he was more than willing to take a DNA test to clear up any misunderstanding. Those types of stories and any dirt the personality can dish up about people in the business is more what I’m looking for. To make her story a bestseller she needs sensationalism and bussing tables in a greasy spoon won’t do it—especially as at the time Linc was making millions.