The Winner Stands Alone

She can't help herself. She has run through half of Cannes to get there, waited nearly two hours, imagined yet again that her life is about to change for ever (although she's less and less prone to such fantasies now and won't allow herself to get as excited as she used to), and she certainly doesn't need more reasons to be depressed.

‘I know,’ says the woman, her eyes fixed on the photos. ‘They must have cost you a fortune. People make a career out of making books, writing CVs, running acting courses and generally making money out of the vanity of people like you.’

‘If you think I'm so awful, why did you call me?’

‘Because we need someone awful.’

Gabriela laughs. The woman finally raises her head and looks her up and down.

‘I like your clothes. I hate vulgar people.’

Gabriela's dream is returning. Her heart beats faster.

The woman hands her a sheet of paper.

‘Go over there to the mark.’

Then she turns to the crew.

‘Put those cigarettes out and close the window. I don't want the sound messed up.’

The ‘mark’ is a cross made with yellow tape on the floor. This means that the actor is automatically in the right position for the lighting and the camera.

‘It's so hot in here, I'm sweating. Could I at least go to the bathroom and put a little foundation on, some make-up?’

‘Of course you can, but when you get back, there won't be time to do the recording. We have to hand this stuff over by this afternoon.’

All the other girls who went in must have asked the same question and been given the same answer. Best not to waste time. She takes a paper handkerchief out of her pocket and dabs at her face as she makes her way over to the mark.

An assistant positions himself by the camera, while Gabriela battles against time, trying to read through what is written on that half-sheet of paper.

‘Test number twenty-five, Gabriela Sheery Thompson Agency’

‘Twenty-five!’ thinks Gabriela.

‘And action,’ says the woman with the glasses.

Silence falls.

‘No, I can't believe what you're saying. No one can commit a murder for no reason.’

‘Start again. You're talking to your boyfriend.’

‘No, I can't believe what you're saying. No one can commit a murder like that for no reason.’

‘The words “like that” aren't in the script. Do you really think that the scriptwriter, who worked on this for months, didn't consider putting those words in, but decided against it because they're useless, superficial, unnecessary?’

Gabriela takes a deep breath. She has nothing to lose but her patience. She's going to do her best now, then leave, go to the beach or go back to bed for a while. She needs to rest in order to be in good shape for the evening round of cocktail parties.

A strange, delicious calm comes over her. Suddenly, she feels protected, loved, grateful to be alive. No one's forcing her to be there, enduring yet another humiliation. For the first time in years, she's aware of her power, a power she had never thought existed.

‘No, I don't believe what you're saying. No one can commit a murder for no reason.’

‘Next line.’

There was no need for her to say that. Gabriela was going to continue anyway.

‘We'd better go and see a doctor. I think you need help.’

‘No,’ said the woman in glasses, who was playing the part of the boyfriend.

‘OK, no doctor, then. How about a little walk, and you can tell me exactly what's going on. I love you, you know, and even if no one else in the world cares about you, I do.’

There are no more lines. Another silence. A strange energy fills the room.

‘Tell the other girl out there she can go,’ says the woman in the glasses to one of the other people present.

Does this mean what Gabriela thinks it means?

‘Go to the marina at the end of Boulevard de la Croisette, opposite Allée des Palmiers. A boat will be waiting there at 1.55 prompt to take you to meet Mr Gibson. We're going to send him the video now, but he always likes to meet the people he might be working with.’

A smile appears on Gabriela's face.

‘I said “might”, I didn't say “will be working with”.’

The smile remains. Mr Gibson!

1.19 p.m. (#ulink_5b574b81-94d3-58f7-bcbf-7312ee3d1195)

Lying on a stainless-steel table between Inspector Savoy and the pathologist is a beautiful young woman of about twenty, completely naked. And dead.

‘Are you sure?’

The pathologist goes over to a stainless-steel sink, removes his rubber gloves, throws them in the bin and turns on the tap.

‘Absolutely. There's no trace of drugs.’

‘What happened then? Could a young woman like her have had a heart attack?’

The only noise in the room is that of running water. The pathologist thinks:

‘They always come up with the obvious: drugs, a heart attack…’

He takes longer than necessary to wash his hands - a little suspense never goes amiss. He applies disinfectant to his arms and throws away the disposable material used in the autopsy. Then he turns round and asks the inspector to study the body.

‘No, really, take a good look. Don't be embarrassed. Noticing details is part of your job, isn't it?’

Savoy carefully examines the body. At one point, he reaches out to lift one of the girl's arms, but the pathologist stops him.