Giles starts laughing. ‘To be fair, Tigs, despite this being the most lame lie I have ever heard, it’s spot on. You do tell a few porkies when it comes to your reviews.’
Tiggy frowns. ‘Just because I don’t always like a place doesn’t mean someone else won’t love it.’
‘You lie, then,’ James says. ‘They give you a free stay and you give them a good review? No doubt they ply you with other freebies too.’
‘So what if they do?’ Tiggy says. ‘It’s all fake, isn’t it? Surely everyone knows that?’
‘God, this is depressing,’ Lucy says. ‘I suppose I’ll go next.’
James stands up. ‘No, let me. Reveal all,’ he says, tapping his device. ‘You can read it out if you like?’
Lucy looks startled for a moment, at the cheek of him. Then she huffs out a breath and starts to read aloud.
NAME: JAMES DEVLIN
AGE: 31
NATIONALITY: BRITISH
CURRENT RESIDENCE: HACKNEY, LONDON, UK
MARITAL STATUS: SINGLE
JOB: FREELANCE PHOTOGRAPHER
WHY YOU’RE HERE: TO TAKE PROMOTIONAL SHOTS
YOUR GREATEST FEAR: BEING BURIED ALIVE
Lucy pauses. ‘Interesting—’
‘Just finish it,’ James says.
She huffs again, then continues.
YOUR LAST LIE: YOU SOLD A PHOTOGRAPH OF A WELL-KNOWN GIRL-BAND MEMBER TO A TABLOID FOR SEVERAL THOUSAND POUNDS – A PHOTOGRAPH THAT NOT ONLY REVEALED THE SUBJECT IN A CAREER-JEOPARDISING SITUATION, BUT THAT YOU DIDN’T ACTUALLY TAKE. YOU STOLE THIS PHOTOGRAPH FROM THE PERSON WHO DID TAKE IT, WHO SENT IT TO YOU FOR ADVICE – YOU TOLD THEM NOT TO USE IT, BUT TOOK CREDIT FOR IT YOURSELF. NOT ONLY UNSCRUPULOUS, YOU’RE TOO LAZY TO DO YOUR OWN WORK.
Lucy sneers. ‘Nice.’
‘Ha,’ Brenda says. ‘A lazy, unscrupulous paparazzo. What a shocker.’
‘Whatever,’ James says. ‘We all need to pay the bills.’
Lucy bites her lip, then stands up. ‘OK,’ she says, ‘tell them who I am.’ She looks around at the group. ‘And before any of you start, I’ll read my own.’
She puts her hands on her hips and begins to read.
NAME: LUCY DE MARCO
AGE: 38
NATIONALITY: SCOTTISH ITALIAN
‘Italian? With that hair?’ Scott looks her up and down, fixing his gaze on her with a barely disguised leer. ‘Does the carpet match the drapes?’
‘You’re a pig,’ Lucy says, her face wrinkling with distaste. ‘Anyway . . .’ She continues:
CURRENT RESIDENCE: SOUTHEND, ESSEX, UK
MARITAL STATUS: SINGLE
JOB: CELEBRITY GOSSIP COLUMNIST
‘Oh yeah,’ Scott butts in again. ‘A paparazzo and now a hack. Great group we’ve got here.’
Lucy glares at him before continuing once more.
WHY YOU’RE HERE: TO SPIN A GOOD STORY
YOUR GREATEST FEAR: BEING FOUND OUT
Her voice breaks. ‘I, um . . . can someone else finish this, please?’
Amelia glances across at Lucy, taking in her expression. Whatever her ‘lie’ is, it’s obviously something that’s rattled her.
Brenda nods. ‘I’ll read it.’
YOUR LAST LIE: YOU SHARED FABRICATED INFORMATION ABOUT AN AFFAIR, WHICH LED TO A VERY AWKWARD WEDDING DAY SHOOT BY HELLO! MAGAZINE AND A SUBSEQUENT SUICIDE ATTEMPT BY THE BRIDE WHILE ON HONEYMOON IN THE SEYCHELLES. NO COINCIDENCE THAT THE GROOM WAS YOUR EX?
Lucy sits down, her expression stony.
‘Ouch,’ says Tiggy. ‘I guess he must’ve really hurt you, then?’
‘Are you serious?’ says Scott. ‘What she did is hardly fair play.’
Lucy says nothing, but she turns to Amelia, catching her eye – and Amelia is sure for a moment that she looks relieved. As if she’d been expecting something far worse to be revealed, and she’s got away with it.
For now, at least.
Brenda
Brenda is furious, but she tries hard to keep her anger in check. She doesn’t want any of the others to see how much the revelations have rattled her. It’s lies, of course. Investment professionals are always getting this sort of misinformed treatment. It’s not like she hasn’t heard it all before. But dragging her family into it was a low blow. Yes, she had suggested that Maggie get rid of those bonds, and yes, maybe it had been partially in her own interests – but Brenda was the one taking the big risks. She was the one entitled to the big pay-offs. Besides, it wasn’t actually cancer that her stepdaughter was diagnosed with. She had a dodgy-looking mole, and it was being removed. No big deal.
The thing that bothers her most about all this, though – ridiculous sensationalism aside – is where the information came from. The company had made it clear through what they’d sent over with the invitation that they had significant knowledge of her business and family dealings that Brenda wouldn’t want leaked. And the offer of some serious insider-trading deals in exchange for her co-operation had of course piqued her interest. But Brenda is stringent about her privacy, both professional and personal. As soon as she gets off this island and back home, she’ll be getting her assistant to launch a proper inquiry. The last thing she needs in her line of work is indiscretion.
None of the others’ so-called lies had been particularly shocking, but just like anything else, it’s all relative. That pathetic Tiggy girl looks forlorn now, sitting there nibbling at the edges of her nails. Her boyfriend is obviously a player – Brenda can spot the type a mile off – and the girl’s own lie was so obviously fuelled by self-loathing and an excruciating desire to please that Brenda can’t help but feel sorry for her. Normally she’d be telling her to sort herself out, but it’s obvious that she’s so downtrodden – so acquiescent and used to putting on her fake smile – that goading her would be worse than kicking a puppy.
Anyway, the main thing for now is to get out of this stifling little room and on with the next stage – whatever that might be. And right now, it’s not Tiggy that’s causing the delay. It’s the other girl, the one whose ear-clip tracker didn’t work and who had to be given a wrist-version instead. Brenda is keeping an eye on that one. She can’t be the only person to think this lack of a proper tracker is all a bit convenient. If they really do tap into their neurological pathways, then this girl is going to be exempt – and Brenda is not sure yet what that might mean for the rest of them.
‘Are you doing this, then?’ she snaps, addressing Amelia, who seems to have lost herself in a trance, gazing at the door as if expecting it to magically open.
The girl blinks. ‘Yes, sorry. Gosh, I was miles away there. It’s all a bit surreal, isn’t it?’
‘She’s right,’ Scott says. ‘We’re waiting on you, lady.’
Amelia takes a deep breath. ‘OK,’ she says, then taps the tracker on her wrist. ‘My turn to share.’
The words appear on the ceiling in the familiar green, stuttering script. She directs her wrist towards one of the walls, quickly realises that the text is now upside down, then flips her wrist to project it to the other wall. ‘Can you all see this?’ she says. ‘I guess it’s because of the different sort of tracker . . .’