VIP - Carrie Duffy

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by a man standing there, speaking softly into his cell phone. Dionne froze, certain that her guilt must be written all over her face, but almost before she knew what she was saying, she asked, “Where’s the bathroom?”

      He didn’t break off from his conversation, simply pointed to a door. Dionne nodded her thanks, walking quickly in the direction he’d indicated. Once inside, she locked the door and set to work, opening the cabinet on the wall. It was crammed with all kinds of pills, a bag of coke, a couple of razor blades and, in a surprisingly domestic touch, a bottle of aftershave. But no money.

      Adrenaline pumping through her body, Dionne span round and began checking the rest of the room – behind the pipes, underneath the sink. Still nothing. With a sudden burst of inspiration, she pulled the lid off the toilet cistern. It scraped along the tank as she tried to move it and Dionne winced, convinced every tiny noise would betray her. But already she could see what she was looking for: taped to the inside of the cistern was a waterproof bag. Dionne pulled it out, wrenching it open. Inside was another bag of what looked like coke and, below that, a pile of notes.

      Dionne’s pulse was racing as she pulled out a handful of dollars – about a third of the stash, so it wasn’t as noticeable. When Dash eventually discovered that the money was gone, she didn’t want him to link it to her. She dreaded to think what the repercussions would be for her momma and daddy after she’d gone.

      Doing her best to replace everything as she’d found it, Dionne flushed the toilet for authenticity and unlocked the door, walking smartly back down the corridor. She could hear talking and laughing coming from the sitting room, but no one paid any attention to her. The guy on the cell phone had gone, and she slipped out of the front door into the silent streets.

      Her heart was thumping so loudly she felt sure everyone in the neighbouring houses could hear it, but she forced herself to walk the first block, past the Baptist Church and the Medical Centre, so she wouldn’t draw any attention to herself. Just another kid from the neighbourhood, out prowling the streets late at night. All she could think about was the money in her purse; there must have been at least five or six thousand dollars, but she wasn’t going to stop and count it.

      Rounding the corner, past the old cinema that had long since burned down, Dionne saw that the streets were practically deserted; only the occasional car driving by in the darkness. Clutching her bag to her chest as if her life depended on it, Dionne began to run.

      1

      The guy sitting opposite her was hot as hell, with dark, Mediterranean looks, and a powerful, muscular body, but Alyson Wakefield didn’t even notice. She was staring out of the train window, fascinated by the view as it flashed past the carriage. The scene outside was far from extraordinary – bleak, grey skies, hanging low over the Kent countryside – but to Alyson, it was one of the most exciting things she’d ever seen. The rolling fields stretching away into the distance represented glorious freedom, the fruit trees coming into bud somehow symbolic of her new life.

      Alyson had never even seen this part of England before, let alone been out of the country. She wasn’t one of those privileged kids, the ones who saw foreign holidays and an annual ski trip as a God-given right. Her life had been tough; she’d experienced more hardship in eighteen years than most people did in a lifetime.

      But now she was leaving.

      She felt a surge of excitement shoot through her body, nerves and anticipation churning in her stomach at the prospect of what lay ahead. She was moving to Paris, leaving behind the rugged moorland of Oldham, and the industrial cityscape of Manchester, where she’d grown up, for the city of love and life and lights.

      The possibilities were endless and tantalising. She could reinvent herself – do what she wanted to do, be the person she wanted to be. She was no longer the shy, gangly schoolgirl, the one that the popular girls ignored and the popular boys taunted mercilessly. Like a snake shedding her skin, it was as though she’d left her old self behind when she’d checked in at St Pancras. In Paris, she could be anyone she chose to be.

      She just wished she was leaving under happier circumstances. For years, she and her mother, Lynn, had faced the world alone, the two of them trying to get by as Lynn struggled with mental health issues and Alyson worked all the spare hours she could to try and keep a roof over their heads. And then her mother had been admitted to hospital after taking an overdose and her father, Terry – the man she hadn’t seen for almost a decade – had come back into their lives, offering Alyson the chance of escape.

      You need to do something for yourself, he’d told her. You need to stand on your own two feet – and you need to give your mother the chance to do the same.

      Alyson knew he was right, but that didn’t stop her hating him. She’d taken the money and run, wracked with guilt but eager to flee before the chance was snatched away. She had no idea what she was going to do with her life, but she was full of hope for the future and willing to work like a dog to make something of herself. She wanted to make her mother proud, to prove to her that it had been the right decision to leave. She didn’t give a damn what her father thought. As far as Alyson was concerned, he could go to hell.

      The rural scene outside her window disappeared in an instant, replaced by nothing but stark blackness. Alyson jumped, jolted out of her daydreams. They were heading into the tunnel now, she realised, shooting under the sea on their way to another country, another life. Alyson couldn’t wait to get started.

      “First time to Paris?”

      “I’m sorry?” Alyson looked up in confusion. It was the man in the seat opposite who had spoken to her. She stared back at him, her pale blue eyes wide and uncertain.

      “I said, is this your first time to Paris?” His face was gentle, his accent hard to place – not English, but not French either. He looked to be in his late twenties, with mocha-coloured skin and dark, curly hair. Even sitting down, it was obvious that he was at least six foot, and his dark eyes were trained on her intently. Alyson was oblivious to his interest. Men weren’t on her radar – her father had seen to that. No way was she ever going to give anyone the opportunity to treat her the way her father had treated her mother.

      “I … yes …” she replied shortly, wishing this guy would just leave her alone. She didn’t want to strike up conversation with a random stranger, no matter how attractive he was.

      “Are you travelling for a vacation?” he asked easily, seemingly unaware of her discomfort.

      “It’s … I mean … Excuse me,” Alyson replied, flustered, as she grabbed her bag and quickly stood up. She could feel the colour flaming in her cheeks as she rushed down the aisle and out of the carriage. She only stopped when she found herself in the buffet car, her breathing coming hard, tears beginning to gather at the corner of her eyes.

      What the hell’s wrong with me? she wondered in frustration. Some guy had spoken to her and she’d bolted like a hare from a trap.

      She was supposed to be different now, she thought, furious at her own weakness. She wanted to be witty and sophisticated, poised and intelligent and able to hold her own in any conversation – not someone who took fright and ran every time a stranger tried to talk to her. Alyson let out a long, shaky sigh. Maybe this new life would be harder than she’d thought.

      She stood miserably beside the window, her own reflection staring back at her. Who was she trying to fool? She wasn’t elegant or beautiful, she thought critically, examining her features in the makeshift mirror. Her face was too thin, too angular, all thrusting cheekbones and pouting lips, surrounded by fine blonde hair. And her eyes were far too large – wide and round, fringed by long, pale lashes. It didn’t help that at five feet eleven, she was about six inches taller than most other women and permanently hunched her shoulders to try and make herself look smaller. Her limbs were ridiculous – long and skinny – while her skin was pale and she refused to use fake tan. She’d spent all of her teenage years being labelled a freak, and it was going to take more than boarding the train to a new city to erase all that.

      Alyson

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