Do I know you?
The lady kept her head down in a book and dark glasses on as the Eurostar pulled into Paris, Gare do Nord.
Her hands gripped the book anxiously and she didn´t think she had even read one word since leaving London. She glanced nervously around the carriage ascertaining if she had attracted anyone’s interest. But the other 2 people, a business man and a student with ear phones resolutely forced into his ears looked like they weren’t the observant types.
She was dressed so as not to attract attention, but if anyone had been studying her you would have seen that the clothes were designer and the hands holding the book were expertly manicured.
The long dark hair pulled back in a pony tail was a wig and she wore a trilby style hat which covered part of her face which was the intention of wearing it.
Fortunately for her as she alighted onto the platform with one small hold all bag she had not been recognised. “Almost there;” she thought to herself; her escape plan was just one step away from completion. She was escaping one of the hugest scandals to ever hit the tabloids and she was not sure if she felt excited by this or scared.
She dug her free hand into her pocket, the December air was icy.
Merging into the crowds of the Paris station she suddenly felt some of her tension melt away. Her thoughts suddenly turned to him and she got the familiar churning in the pit of her stomach. She took a deep breath, hardly daring to hope. Would he come?
It was December two years previously that she had met him. One of the endless charity events she attended, where she put on her mask which she showed to the world. As she entered the venue paparazzi flash bulbs captured her beauty and poise. Darling of the media and gossip pages, she and her husband were the ultimate power couple.
She reminded herself this was all she had dreamed of and sought in her vacuous youth. The chance to be noticed and admired, to find fame and fortune. She had found all this in her marriage.
She had virtually fallen over herself to get down the aisle. Her modelling career and her pedigree had elevated her to moderate notoriety and she had been careful never to fall out of a club inebriated. But he took her to a whole new world of power and she wanted it more than anything. So much that she ignored the warning signs.
Her designer gown which swirled around her on the red carpet hid the physical and emotional scars which her marriage had brought her.
The last few weeks had been a low point in her marriage, her husband´s controlling ways had left her virtually a prisoner in her own home, he manipulated her insecurities making her feel worthless and alone.
She felt sick to be holding his hand, seeing tomorrow the papers showing what the world believed to be the happiest of marriages.
“Sarah;” a reporter approached, “Who are you wearing tonight”.
“Victoria Beckham,” she simpered back.
“And are you a fan of Pete´s music?”
She froze. The charity for water aid in Africa was the brain child of Pete Novak´s, the lead singer in the world´s biggest rock band. In truth she had never even met him but her husband’s PR had thought it a good idea for them to attend as it made them look current. “Uggh,” she began hesitatingly.
“Sarah and I are huge fans;” interrupted her husband, “we cannot wait to hear him sing live tonight.” And they moved on into the building. He squeezed her hand painfully and whispered into her ear menacingly; “Do try to prepare better my dear, I know you are not that bright but I don’t want you to make a fool of me.” She knew better than to respond, his constant put downs had already brought her to a point of such low esteem she sometimes felt she couldn’t get up n the morning.
After the sumptuous four course feast had been served and the plates had been served, her husband left the table to go and make small talk with the various VIPs in the room who could further his career and she sat half listening to the banal banter of the lady next to her.
Suddenly the chair next to her became occupied by a man, he looked somewhat less formal than the other men in the room with a white shirt open at the neck showing off a great tan. His blond hair was swept off his chiselled face and he smiled as he gently touched her shoulder to get her attention.
“Hi Sarah;” he said,
“I´m sorry do I know you,” she responded haughtily.”
“I have been wanting to meet you for some time.”
He had a way of looking at you straight in the eye as he spoke which drew you into him aura. Sarah was taken aback.
She gathered her composure and tried to be condescending, no matter how attractive he was, who did he think he was, just coming and sitting next to her, he was probably an over-confident reporter. “Oh,” she replied, “And why is that?”
“To congratulate you on your work you do for animal rights.”
She couldn’t help herself she beamed her winning smile at him, it was so rare anyone ever praised her. “Well everyone has to do their bit and I was brought up with animals so they are very close to my heart.”
“Well;” he said you are bringing some really important issues to the forefront of discussion he said, and you should be commended for that.” He touched her hand and something inside her stomach lurched and she felt her cheeks flush.
“I suppose you had your choice of horses from Daddy’s estate,” he grinned at her.
“I am sorry;” she said, “I do not think it matters what your status in life, you can care for an animal whatever walk of life you are from.”
“Quite right.” he picked up her champagne and held it up, “Here’s to animals, whether they are posh or not!” and he took a slug. She was enraged by his arrogance.
“I am sorry I don’t think I know you.”
Just then the compeer’s voice sounded over the microphone. “Ladies and gentleman, it is a great pleasure to welcome the charity’s patron to the stage to sing a selection of his hits, I give you Mr Pete Novak.”
He continued to look straight into her eyes and said; “I´m Pete.” Then he smiled and ran onto the stage where his picked up his guitar. She sank into her seat, feeling utterly humiliated as her husband returned to the table.
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She smiled at the memory of their first meeting as she joined the taxi queue outside the station. She could see her breath in the dimming light of the afternoon and was thankful when she was finally able to climb into car. She gave the driver the address of the apartment and the taxi accelerated into the traffic.
She could see the Arc de Triomph in the distance as they crawled around the Champs Èlysées to the Place do Concord.
The taxi stopped ten minutes later outside an inconspicuous building located on a small back street. She fumbled in her bag for her wallet and pulled out some notes which she handed to the driver who sped off. The façade was old, with grills on the windows and a large glass door which sprung open when she typed in the code.
She took a lift to the 4th floor as she had been instructed and apartment 401 was straight ahead of her. She produced a Yale key from her bag and turned the lock and entered a large open plan space and fumbled for the lights.
She dropped her bag onto the floor and wandered into the kitchen area. There were some groceries lying on the work top, some bread, butter, brie and a bottle of red wine, which she opened gratefully. She wondered who had left them there and who owned the flat. “Don´t worry darling;” he had said to her the night before; “It is all sorted, what’s the point in being an international star if you can’t get hold of the keys to an apartment in Paris.” She smiled to herself then nervously looked at her watch. Would he come?”
……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….
It had been a cold February morning with frost coating the trees outside her window when she had entered her husband’s study to find a newspaper her PR had told her to look at.
He had been sat in the wing backed chair facing the door and had stood up when she walked in.
She had been startled and embarrassed to see him again. He looked effortlessly comfortable is these surroundings in jeans and a fur lined sweat shirt and baseball cap. He stood up and her stomach lurched again. He smiled and held out his hand. “Hello, I don’t think we have met.”
It made her laugh. “I am so sorry about before, you must have thought I was a total idiot.”
“Not at all,” he grinned back. “I mean my album is only number 1 in 20 countries and I am at my own charity event, how ridiculous of me to assume everyone would know who I am.”
“I am more into dance music.”
“Well I think we need to fix that.” He walked towards her. “I am doing a gig tonight, I bet I can convert you.”
“You are very sure of yourself. What are you doing here anyway?” she asked.
“Your husband’s people contacted me after event, they want to get more involved in the charity. He is very influential. I want to here what he has to say.”
At that moment the man she hated most in the world walked in he shook hands with Peter and glanced menacingly at her. “Aghh I see my wife has found you, star struck is she.” He laughed and she visibly shrunk from him like a kitten who has seen a fox and she stared at the floor.”
The music star glanced at her puzzled. “On the contrary Sir, she is not familiar with my work, I was suggesting that she come to a small performance I am giving tonight and you too if you would like.”
“I am afraid I have commitments tonight, but Sarah you must go, myself and Mr Novak are going to be working together so it would be good for you to be seen there.”
“Right,” She stammered, “I will look forward to it Mr Novak. “She dared not look up, in case her husband sensed what she now knew to be an un-quenchable attraction to the man in front of her and she hurried from the room.
Two tickets arrived by courier later that afternoon and she spent all afternoon in a state of excitement and anxiety. She decided to ask her PA to accompany her as she had no friends any longer, her husband had made sure of that.
Sitting in the audience that night at the intimate gig, he had scanned the audience until he had looked straight at her. “There you are;” he said into the microphone, this is for you and he started to sing his hit “You don´t know me.”
The media speculated for weeks who the mystery woman was he sung the song to but no one guessed. And as she was leaving the auditorium a scruffy kid in jeans came up to her and whispered, follow me. He had led her back stage and that was how it had all started.
Their affair had lasted a year of rushed encounters, secret meetings and glorious nights spent together when her husband was away. Their instant attraction to each other and the thrill of the sheer unspeakable shocking ness of who they were and what would happen if they were caught deepened into unquenchable passion and later love.
He has soon guessed the nature of her relationship with her husband and they made up a story of how they would escape together and start their journey in Paris. This was always they knew make believe, but then everything changed.
Pete was approached by a journalist. He was an ambitious hack keen to make a name for himself, and was investigating corruption in Africa and in particular how money intended for water aid was in fact being invested in weapons for the corrupt government.
Smelling a scandal that would rock the country he spent 6 months pursuing the trail like a blood hound. Off-shore accounts, photographed secret meetings with corrupt officials. The journalist set up a meeting with Pete ask him if he knew the truth about how his charity money was being spent.
But the thrust of the story was that someone was facilitating the purchase of weapons and had been liaising between arms dealers and the African states government and the paper trail led back to Sarah’s husband.
In 10 Downing Street a cabinet meeting was just coming to an end. The Foreign Minister pushed his chair back and rose from the table. He collected the documents from the table and returned them to his brief case. He had been briefing the gathered ministers on the latest update from an African state whish was coming under increasing threat from a terrorist organisation which was gathering support in the country and could if not controlled become another ISIS.
On leaving the office one of his top aides approached him looking worried. “Minister I need to talk to you.” He pulled him to one side of the corridor and spoke to his ear.
“What´s wrong?” He murmured smiling threw gritted teeth to the PM as he passed.
“It’s your wife sir.”
“Sarah, what about her?”
“She´s missing,” the aide said. “I think you better come with me.”
Not losing his famous cool the foreign minister followed the aide.
Meeting his wife had been his key to the echelons of power. Of course he had been initially attracted to her class and beauty, her family connections given him the launch he needed to propel him into politics. But once he had gained his power he began to despise her for the very things that had got him to where he was.
What the minister had not briefed the cabinet about was the decision that had been reached by himself and some of the men in grey suits that lurked hidden in the back corridors of Westminster who took control of certain situations in ways which were never to become public.
It was now unthinkable for government to arm foreign powers, but the importance for the government to remain in power and for the country not to become another power vacuum to be run by terrorists was obvious. So he master minded the plan to under the guise of government contributions to high profile charities such as water-aid, the money would in fact be invested into arms that would help the government retain power.
Of course a lot of the countries poor would die without the much needed money from the charities but he felt it a small price to pay for the countries stability. No doubt his wife would disagree, but then what did people like his wife who were born with a silver spoon in their mouth know about poverty. He had grown up in a council estate in Manchester. He had been taken into care after his mother died of an over-dose and before he was placed in the care of foster parents who had nurtured his brains and ambition he had seen first hand how the poor were left to rot and die with no help and this had made him immune to the horror of poverty.
Now they were in a meeting room alone, he dropped his cool. “What do you mean she has disappeared?”
“Sir no one has seen her for 2 days and her phone is off. Do you have any idea where she can have gone?”
“No,” he said puzzled.
“And there is another thing sir. A journalist has been calling you office all morning demanding a meeting. He says he must talk to you, he said to mention water aid?”
The minister suddenly felt sick.
Sarah took a shower in the apartment’s only bathroom and she let the steamy torrent of water wash away the dirt of the journey from London.
She thought about the events of the last week.
Pete had told her what the journalist had discovered and that he had been given a week to give his side of the story before it broke. He had told Sarah she should leave while she could and separate herself from the scandal. One of his roadies had secretly brought her the keys and the address of the apartment, but she had no idea whether or not she would ever see her lover again.
He would surely try to get as far away from any suggestion that he has any involvement in her husband’s shady dealings, as he possibly could. She was sure that he would feel that helping her hide from the press during this time was his way of helping her and saying goodbye.
She towelled herself dry and pulled on her only change of clothes and lay down on the sofa feeling totally alone. Suddenly she heard some footsteps outside the door and figured it was a neighbour, but then a key turned in the lock in the door.
She held her breath wondering who else had the key to the apartment and kicking herself for not putting on the dead bolt.
Then suddenly the door opened and Pete walked in. She ran to him and fell into his arms. He held her at arms length and stroking the tears from her face said “I´m sorry, do I know you?”
