AT THAT MOMENT, THE GRAY SKY was more than just a feature of the London landscape. It carried the traumatic memory of the day her father had been murdered. Perhaps she would have felt nothing more than a distant sadness if not for her encounter with the Italian priest only minutes earlier. He had disappeared from the village the day after the crime without saying goodbye to anyone. When she and her mother went to his house beside the church, they found the door open, the wardrobe and drawers empty. Raphaniè had not been there to comfort them.
He made me fall into Sammy's trap — she accused him silently as she drank her second glass of water.
— Do you want to talk about the priest? — Meggie broke the silence.
— Are you sure it was him?
— My boss introduced us, Jess. How do you know each other?
— He gave me this... — the Brazilian replied, taking the Bible from her purse and opening it to the dedication page. — I was seven years old when...
The journalist took the book, read Raphaniè's message and then looked at her friend.
— Wow! That's quite a coincidence, the two of you meeting here in London after all this time...
— Or maybe it isn't...
— Why did you say he abandoned you?
— Remember when I told you my father was murdered?
Meggie nodded.
— The next day, the priest was gone from town. My mother and I were lost, and I felt abandoned by God and... sold my soul...
— Who killed your father? — Meggie interrupted.
— The police closed the case. No one knows exactly what happened.
— No suspects?
— A few months earlier, my father beat up a drunk who refused to pay his bill. He left the bar swearing he would kill my father and was never seen in town again.
— Maybe he came back for revenge... — Meggie commented.
— That's what the police said.
— Maybe the priest is more involved in this than either of us imagined — the American said abruptly.
— Do you think he could have done it? — the model asked, her eyes widening.
— Why else would he be frightened by seeing you and use a false identity? His name isn't Ítalo Mannieri, and he isn't some businessman. I'm sure of that.
— No, I don't believe it... He... He's not a murderer — Jessyca stammered, shaking her head nervously.
— He's one of the suspects in the murder of a member of the House of Lords, and judging by your story, I don't know why he hasn't already run away with his tail between his legs — the journalist revealed, remembering what Saul had told her:
"Maybe he's there to make peace with his past."
He must know what happened... — she concluded silently.
— My God! That's all I needed. I'm screwed, Meggie. Please help me — the model begged, her voice trembling.
— One thing at a time, Jess. First, I need you to give me some juicy gossip so I can put you on the cover of tomorrow's edition.
THE JOURNALIST FINISHED WRITING and looked at her friend, waiting for approval.
— Do you think your editor will buy this story?
— I don't think he'd tolerate that kind of prejudice against Brazil. Saul thinks the airplane was invented by a Brazilian. Can you believe that?
— But he's right. Santos-Dumont invented the airplane — the model confirmed.
— So he wasn't joking...
— Why would he be?
— Anyway, do you approve of the story I just made up?
— Fine, send it to your boss. I want to talk to you about another problem.
— Just give me a second — Meggie asked, adding a note to the text:
Saul... I've just discovered that your priest friend killed Jessyca's father. You probably already knew that, didn't you?
SLICES OF CAKE, COFFEE ÉCLAIRS, fruit tarts, freshly baked biscuits, macarons and scones delighted the eyes and sweetened the air. The traditional afternoon tea stood in stark contrast to Jessyca's lifeless eyes.
Meggie took a sip of American coffee and broke the silence.
— We don't have all afternoon, Jess.
— I'm sorry — the Brazilian said, turning toward her.
— Is that tea? — she asked, pointing at the porcelain teapot bearing the L'oscar London emblem.
— It's the tea you ordered! Let me pour it for you — the journalist replied as she filled the cup.
— Something very bad is going to happen to me, Meggie.
— Why are you saying that? — she asked.
If she suspects anything, everything will be ruined... — she added silently.
— Do you remember how I became a model?
— If I'm not mistaken, it all started with a talent scout on the beach. Am I right?
— A talent scout who promised me success...
— A professional who knew how to recognize your talent and certainly made a fortune from it — the American corrected her.
— He asked for something in return, Meggie — the model revealed.
— I don't think you ever told me that part — the journalist said, staring at her friend. — You don't have to feel embarrassed. A lot of scouts take advantage of young girls' naivety...
— Do you know what he asked me for in return?
— Sex.
— Not sex. And not money either.
— What else could he possibly have wanted?
— I spent all these years without knowing — Jessyca replied, picking up the teacup with trembling hands. She spilled almost a third of it and decided to set the rest aside.
— Why are you so nervous?
The model's face darkened visibly.
— What could possibly be that terrible?
— Do you believe in the devil?
— No. You know I don't. And neither do you.
— Just because I don't believe in him doesn't mean he doesn't exist.
— Spiritualists threw Christian absurdities into the trash, including the devil with horns, a pointed tail and a pitchfork.
— I used to believe that too, ever since...
— Where are you going with this, Jess?
— Strange things are happening, Meggie. Last night, my neighbors gave me a letter. It was from the scout.
— After all these years?
— Yes...
— What did he want?
— It's here — Jessyca said, taking a folded sheet of paper from her purse and handing it to her friend.
Meggie unfolded the letter and read the message in silence:
Dear Jessyca,
I have never taken my eyes off you. The last six years have been very kind to you. You look beautiful... but unfortunately, you're not my type. I prefer more curves.
Congratulations. You've become the greatest supermodel in the world. Of course, without my little push, you would be nobody.
The time has come to settle our debt.
I hope you like the clothes and jewelry you'll be wearing tomorrow. I designed them myself. Keep them on after the press conference.
At eleven-thirty tomorrow night, you will receive a visitor in your suite. My "collector" is called LaVey.
Be a good hostess.
And do everything he asks.
I promise you it will be an unforgettable night.
A kiss,
Sammy.
— Wow! — Meggie exclaimed.
— I'm scared... What should I do?
— He can't force you to do anything.
— I think he's the devil... — Jessyca whispered, bursting into tears.
— He's just an opportunistic son of a bitch, a psychopath! We know the devil doesn't exist. That stupid letter just got inside your head — Meggie countered, taking her friend's right hand.
— The clothes and jewelry he wants me to wear are horrible and frightening!
— What do you mean?
— I think they came straight out of Revelation.
— That part of the Bible about the end of the world?
— Exactly.
— I think this talent scout is a voyeur with some bizarre fetish.
— That doesn't make any sense...
— I bet this is his plan: while you're having sex with this LaVey guy, he'll be hiding inside the closet, watching you and masturbating — Meggie joked.
— What would you do if you were me?
— In your last email, you told me you went undercover to a nightclub hoping to find someone for a one-night stand.
— That was a stupid idea — Jessyca commented, smiling as she picked up a macaron.
— It was an adventure. If this LaVey guy is handsome and hot, what have you got to lose? — the journalist teased, mischief in her eyes.
— Nothing — Jessyca agreed with a smile.
— And what if he's a psychotic murderer?
— Bronny is an excellent bodyguard. Have him stand guard outside your room.
— I love you, my friend. Will you be at the press conference?
— I'll be working.
— So will I — Jessyca laughed.
— Unfortunately, I have to go now. I need to get ready.
— Too bad you barely enjoyed any of our afternoon tea — Meggie lamented as she rose from the table.
— It was quite an eventful afternoon tea.
— It started with the priest...
— My God, I never imagined I'd ever see him again — Jessyca said as they reached the entrance to Bar Boulud.
The two women passed the Black Angel.
— Hello, Bronny — Meggie greeted him. — I hope you take very good care of my friend, especially tonight — she added, winking her left eye.
— Her guardian angel couldn't do a better job — the bodyguard shot back, returning the wink before following behind them.
— The priest... I can't believe he...
— Murdered your father? — Meggie finished for her. — That breed can be treacherous, Jess. Yesterday, when I met him, I actually liked him. A few minutes later, he left the table and... Well, the police suspect he killed a lord during the dog races.
— My God, that's horrifying. As soon as this campaign is over, I'm going back to Brazil and asking the police to reopen the investigation. If he murdered my father, he'll have to pay for it in prison!
— And in hell too, since you believe in it.
She said goodbye, kissed her friend and stepped into the nearby elevator.
As it descended, Meggie muttered:
— Sammy, you son of a bitch.