The One Who Got Away (23 page)

‘I heard Tom Cruise is tiny,' Dad shouted back, as he clapped.

‘He is tiny,' confirmed Aaron.

‘Hello, everyone!' cooed Nadine, blowing kisses towards the crowd. ‘Oh goodness, did you all come here for me? And I was late? I hope you can forgive me.'

The crowd cheered their forgiveness.

Nadine beamed. ‘Now, where do I go?'

A harried woman with a face microphone took her gently by the elbow and directed her towards a card table covered with a red velvet cloth.

‘I'm going to put my hands in here, am I?' said Nadine, surveying what looked to be a tray filled with freshly poured plaster of Paris.

Her assistant handed over a pair of silicone gloves.

‘Ooh, I put these on, do I?' said Nadine, holding them all floppy like flesh-coloured condoms.

The crowd roared. Nadine winked back and drew the gloves slowly onto her hands. She positioned herself over the wet cement and pressed.

The MC was ecstatic: ‘Yes, yes, ladies and gentlemen, Nadine Perez, look at her go … Walk of Fame … What a moment!'

‘Oh wow,' Nadine said, ‘this is fun!'

With the formal part of the ceremony over, reporters began shouting questions.

Nadine cupped a hand to her ear.

‘What was it like playing Robert Redford's love interest?' shouted a man next to me. ‘He's old enough to be your grandfather! That scene in the steam room, we haven't seen female nudity like that since
Basic Instinct
. How was it, shooting that scene?'

Nadine peeled off her gloves, winked and smiled. ‘What is it you really want to know? What exactly are you asking me? Did they see my coochie? Is that what you want to know?'

The reporter turned scarlet. My father whispered to me: ‘Coochie? That's the word now?'

The MC laughed and shouted back to the crowd, ‘Come on now, a serious question for Nadine if we've got one?'

This was our moment. I dug an elbow into Dad's side. He stood up and, in the front row of the bleachers, he could hardly be missed.

The MC came running with the microphone. ‘Here we go, we have a question here,' he cried. ‘What's your name, sir?'

‘I'm Danny Franklin.'

The microphone screamed. The MC snatched it back, tapped it, and handed it back to Dad, nodding with encouragement.

‘Nadine, I'm Loren's dad,' said Dad, his voice now booming. ‘Your old roommate, Loren Franklin. I'm her dad.'

Nadine had been standing in her pretty high heels, patiently listening to Dad's question. Her head was tilted slightly to the right, and the diamonds in her left ear were cascading down her neck. Now she straightened and seemed to frown. The MC glared at Dad, and then glanced back at Nadine, waiting for the signal to snatch the mic away. Sensing this, Dad gripped it tighter.

‘I'm Loren's dad … Loren was your friend in New York. We need your help.'

Reporters turned in their seats to stare. By the look of things, we had maybe seconds for Nadine to respond. The security guard who had seemed so friendly was now moving in a menacing way in our direction. Any minute now, Dad would have his arm twisted up behind his back – but no, because Nadine put a pale and elegant hand up and said: ‘Wait, wait, wait. No, no, no, wait. Did you say Loren Franklin? You're her father?'

‘I am,' said Dad, relieved. He was still standing, so I stood up, too.

‘You know she's missing?' said Dad.

‘I didn't know that,' said Nadine. ‘What happened to her?'

The security guard stepped back. Dad had the floor. He cleared his throat.

‘She married David Wynne-Estes. You know, from Book-IT. The guy you warned her about.'

The crowd laughed and Nadine laughed, too.

‘And you said she's missing?' she said, head tilted as if to hear us better.

‘She disappeared from a ship,' said Dad. ‘This was off the coast of Mexico, so the police are saying it's outside their jurisdiction. We think her husband did it and he killed his mistress, too. It's a big story in our town, but the police won't lay any charges. We need your help to put some pressure on.'

The crowd was hushed, expectant.

‘Well,' said Nadine carefully, ‘I don't know all the details, so I probably shouldn't comment, but if Loren is missing, and you think something terrible has happened to her, of course you have my support for a full and complete investigation.' The crowd started clapping. ‘And I'll probably get in trouble for this, but for what it's worth, I don't mind telling you, I never liked that man. David, I mean. I always thought Loren deserved better … and now everyone, I've got to go! Thank you all so much for coming! Bye! Byeeeee! Bye-bye!'

And with a wave of her pale hand, she was gone.

* * *

Who are you?

What's your name?

Who is the missing lady?

Nadine had left the stage and the media transferred its white-hot focus to poor old Dad. He was still standing in the bleachers, with his hands over his ears. Aaron, determined to be first, had run off to file his story: Nadine Perez wants an
investigation into the deaths of a Bienveneda businessman's wife and mistress!

I was doing my best to sort one question from the next, when one of Nadine's people – her name was Myah, although I wouldn't learn that until later – pushed through the crowd.

‘Come with me,' she said, gripping my arm with a firmness I didn't expect from such a tiny girl. ‘You need to do this properly.'

I put my head down and allowed Myah to drag us towards the Chinese theatre, squinting at the camera bulbs flashing in my face.

‘Look at the storm you've created,' she said approvingly, once we got inside and had a chance to sit down. ‘But listen, there's a way to go about getting publicity for your cause, and this is so not it. Why didn't you just write to us?'

‘I did,' I complained, ‘but nobody answered. And Loren's husband, David, he's got all the power where we come from. It's like everyone just believes his side of the story because he's rich, he belongs to the right clubs, he knows all the right people.'

‘He can't be that powerful,' said Myah, ‘because I've never heard of him. Vaguely, vaguely I remember this story. A woman missing off a cruise ship, but there's more to it, am I right? There's a mistress? The wife killed the mistress?'

‘She didn't kill the mistress! See, that's what I mean. That's what David is saying. And at the rate we're going, that's what Loren's daughters are going to grow up believing.'

‘Alright, alright,' said Myah. ‘Well, this is well outside my remit, but Nadine wants to help you, so …'

She took a tiny notepad out of her purse and began scribbling down a name and number. ‘This here is the name of a friend of mine who is an agent. Do you know what an agent is? She can arrange a deal for you with one of the big networks. You
call this number and you tell them Myah sent you. Tell them you want to do a deal to tell the whole story properly. A calm, professional interview. Because an hour from now? This is going to be a massive story, and you want to be prepared. You want to be able to say no, we've signed an exclusive deal with whomever. And then they'll report that. Believe me when I tell you there is a science to turning a small-town story into national news.'

She wasn't wrong.

Already, the headlines were starting to appear online.

MY SECRET SORROW
!
SEXY NADINE SPEAKS OF HEARTACHE OVER FRIEND'S MYSTERY DEATH
!

WHERE IS LOREN
?
NADINE PEREZ CRIES OUT FOR HELP FOR HER MISSING FRIEND
!

The story was on Facebook, in
People
, on
Huffpo
. My phone went into meltdown as I tried to deal with all the calls.

‘How do you know Nadine Perez?'

‘What do you believe happened to your sister?'

‘Where is the investigation at?'

‘I'm sorry,' I said. ‘We have no comment. We have signed an exclusive agreement with
RealNews
.'

And so we had. Myah's friend, the agent, did that deal for us in less than an hour. Then Dad, Aaron and I headed back to Bienveneda. A paparazzo photographer followed us for a while, on a motorbike, snapping away with one hand, clinging onto his driver with the other.

‘Imagine living like this,' I said.

‘You don't ever want the spotlight of fame to fall on you,' said Aaron, shaking his head. ‘People like Michael Jackson – he couldn't leave the house without being photographed. It's torture.'

‘People like the Kardashians – they seem to love it,' I said, as the bike finally fell away.

We arrived at Mom's to find another photographer camped on the lawn. The producer from
RealNews
, Sunday Dow, was also already there, and she tried to get the photographer to go away when we arrived, but he remained defiant, saying, ‘This is America. I can stand on whatever sidewalk I want.'

‘Well, make sure you stay on the sidewalk, then,' she said, shooing him off Mom's lawn.

‘Don't let anyone photograph you,' Sunday said.

‘Why would anyone want to photograph me?' Dad asked, lumbering towards the door.

‘Because they know we've paid for your story,' said Sunday, ‘meaning your story has value. Meaning, they'll want to get it free. So let's get down to it. Where shall we go to discuss?'

We took her into the kitchen, where Sunday moved her chair so close to mine that our knees were almost touching.

‘As I understand it, the police can't investigate your sister's disappearance,' she said to me, reading from notes she had brought to the house, ‘because of problems with the jurisdiction?'

‘That's right,' Dad and I said in unison.

‘Okay. And you'd like us to help you get around that by forcing an investigation into the death of Lyric Morales? Because you think David killed her and has blamed the death on Loren?'

I nodded.

‘And so, if he can't be charged with the death of his wife, you're hoping to get him for the death of his mistress? That's great. I really like this,' Sunday said, ‘and tell me, when David goes to prison for Lyric's murder, who's going to look after the girls? Your family, surely? Not his family. So this is about getting those girls away from a monster, too.'

I would be lying if I said I didn't want the girls. David had stopped all contact when I told him that I wanted to see him charged, and I guess I can't blame him for that, but it made me sick when I thought about what he might be telling them.

That we didn't love them.

That we didn't care.

That their mom was a crazy lady who disappeared from their lives.

‘Well, you know, this is a little off-topic, but what we heard was that David encourages the girls to think that their mom is still alive,' Sunday said, leafing slowly through the notes on her lap. ‘Not more than half an hour ago, we were offered a picture, like a crayon drawing, by a teacher at the Grammar school they attend. Teachers don't earn much so I suppose you can't blame her for trying to sell it. Apparently it was something that Peyton drew. That's her name, isn't it? Peyton? And we were intrigued, because it was a picture of her mom, Loren, resting under a palm tree on a desert island. The way it was described to us, Peyton thinks her mom got shipwrecked and is maybe coming back to her one day.'

‘Please say you didn't buy it.'

‘Oh no,' said Sunday gently. ‘We definitely said no.'

‘I should hope so,' I said. ‘I can't believe a Grammar teacher would do that.'

Putting the girls in Grammar was a big part of what Loren loved about having moved to the High Side. She was always going on about it. ‘Such a beautiful school,' she used to say. ‘The grounds! The teachers! They have music. They have drama. They have debating. They organise field trips to places like Peru.'

Now they're selling pictures by her children?

‘Well,' said Sunday. ‘Let's help you get those children away from there, shall we?'

The interview started with Dad and me sitting opposite the reporter, Christina Alley, who arrived an hour after Sunday, looking like a skeleton. I know what the gossip magazines are saying: anorexia. I'm not sure, but she was certainly all knuckles and cheekbones.

‘Tell me about that suit, Mr Franklin,' she said, as Dad sat waiting for the cameras to roll. He had been tugging on the sleeves of his jacket since Christina sat down. ‘Did wardrobe supply that? Do we need to get you a larger size?'

‘I got this suit for Loren's wedding,' said Dad. ‘It's only the second time I've worn it, and I put it on for today. I want to feel close to her.'

Christina looked up from her notes. ‘Now, make sure you say that on air.'

We didn't get a room at the Bonsall for our interview. The producers wanted what they called ‘a feel for what's real' and Mom's house was apparently ‘just perfect'.

Mom was aghast. ‘You don't want people to see all this,' she said, waving her hand around the sitting room with its worn armchairs and the window-mounted air-conditioner and the no-brand TV screen.

‘We definitely do,' murmured Sunday. ‘And we are going to compare it to some footage from David's house. In fact, I just did a little helicopter ride over that property with a cameraman in tow. Do you know they have a leaping dolphin statue in their pool?'

It was a surreal experience, walking through Mom's home to my old bedroom, being followed by a man with a furry microphone and another with a camera, talking to Christina Alley in a way that was supposed to sound spontaneous although it was all rehearsed.

‘So this is where Loren slept when she was a little girl?' asked Christina.

‘It is,' I said, moving towards the small white bookshelf to extract an old photo album, ‘and I have some photographs here of when she was a kid.'