Table of Contents
About the Author
Praise
Acknowledgements
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Ebury Press Fiction Footnotes
Alison Kervin is an award-winning freelance writer and journalist who has previously worked as the Chief Sports Feature Writer of The Times, and the Chief Sports Interviewer of The Daily Telegraph. She has written eight highly-acclaimed books, including two previous novels, The Wag's Diary and A Wag Abroad.
Praise for Alison Kervin and her previous novels:
'This rags-to-riches-to-rags tale cannot fail to amuse everyone.' Mirror
'Frothy, funny and unputdownable . . . this is the essential summer beach read' Glamour
'Hilarious page-turner' LOOK Magazine
'A hilarious tale.' Closer
'It was laugh-out-loud funny . . . . It's the sort of book you just devour. Just great. Hysterical'
Weekend Magazine, Daily Mail
'One of the most eagerly anticipated books of this year . . . Fabulously funny. A very cool book'
Trashionista
Acknowledgements
Many thanks to everyone at Ebury for all their hard work and enthusiasm, particularly Gillian Green, my editor, who's been such an enormous help, but also to Louise and Hannah and everyone in the sales and marketing team whose unseen work is hugely appreciated.
Thanks, as always, to Sheila Crowley; my agent, friend and ally and the only one I can really rely on to come drinking with me when everyone else has hung up their glass long ago!
Thanks to Detective Inspector Martyn Barnes of West Mercia Police for his help with the police related aspects of the book and for explaining in such clear and gory detail how murder investigations work. Any mistakes in this section of the book are mine, not his.
Thanks to Richmond Theatre for their help, and to The Sun Inn in Richmond for their wine. The only reason I went there night after night was to research, you understand.
To everyone at the Hampton Court Palace Rose Garden – thanks for telling me all about the roses.
Thanks to the Gower family and all my relatives in Wales – Ken, Marie, Keith, Yvonne, Andrew, Mark, Anne, Anthony, Geraint, Vincent and Jocelyn, and all their families, for a fantastic weekend of cows, sheep, food and great company.
Thanks to George for laughing at the jokes and suggesting names for the characters (Yoda didn't make it, but I'm grateful for the suggestion).
Finally thanks to Jayne Kearney, Charlie Bronks and Lee Marr for reading the book and coming back with such fantastic help and advice – it was much appreciated. I hope you enjoy the finished product . . .
CELEBRITY
BRIDE
Alison Kervin
This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author's and publisher's rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
ISBN 9781407027586
Version 1.0
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Published in 2009 by Ebury Press, an imprint of Ebury Publishing
A Random House Group Company
Copyright © 2009 by Alison Kervin
Alison Kervin has asserted her right to be identified as the author of this Work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
This novel is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author's imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental
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Version 1.0
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For George Kervin-Evans.
And for Mum & Dad, with thanks.
Chapter 1
'You'll be famous!' squeals Mandy, clenching her hands into the tightest of fists and shaking them at me in a rather terrifying fashion. Her deep blue eyes are alight with delight and her cheeks fairly quiver with excitement. She couldn't look more impressed if I'd announced that I'd just won the Nobel Peace prize. 'Perhaps you'll be in Heat magazine!'
'Wooooah . . .' says Sophie, and all three of us gasp at the very thought. Mandy plonks herself down onto our rust-coloured, worn and tatty sofa, quite giddy with disbelief at the whole thing. She's shocked herself so much that her legs have entirely given way beneath her and now she just sits and looks from me to the torn and well-thumbed copy of the world's greatest magazine, poking up out of Sophie's fake Marc Jacobs bag. Sophie drops her gaze too, so we're all staring at Heat as if it's about to get up and break-dance across the room.
'I don't think so,' I say, still staring. 'I bet nothing will change really; I'll be living there instead of here – that's all. I won't be famous.'
Except that I know that's not true; from the tips of my killer heels to the ends of my wavy auburn hair, I realise that my whole life is going to be flung up into the air like the pieces of an intricate jigsaw. I don't know what sort of picture they're going to create when they land. All I know is that it'll be different from the picture of my life right now.
You see . . . this is the situation – today is 28 October and I live on £15k a year from my work as an administrator at Richmond Fringe Theatre. I struggle to stay below my overdraft limit. I drink cheap white wine, which tastes as if it's been made from bleach instead of grapes, and – when I can afford them – I indulge in Domino's pizzas that are so full of fat that I can feel my arteries filling with every bite I take. When I'm feeling super-rich, I blow twenty quid in Primark; if I time my visits well enough sale-wise (and I'm an expert at knowing when the Primark sales are, to be fair), I can emerge with a top-to-toe outfit and still have enough left for chips on the bus home.
The thing is though, from tomorrow, things will be different because I'm moving out of the flat that I've shared with the girls for the last year and a half, and I'm moving in with a guy called Rufus Ge
orge. We've been together for six months (exactly six months tomorrow) and it's been fantastic . . . amazing . . . totally brilliant . . . and all the other superlatives you can think of – all rolled up together. Just super-awesome. He's lovely, sweet, kind and generous . . . Oh yes – he's also the most famous actor on the planet. He gets paid about £20 million for every film he stars in and most of the single women in Hollywood would die to be with him. Yep, I'm dating the Rufus George, and I have a feeling that my days of catching the bus to Primark and getting chips on the way back are about to be left behind. All this is great, of course, because it means I'm going to be with the man I love; the man of my dreams; the man who makes me shiver inside whenever I think about him. But it's kind of sad at the same time, in a strange way; I'll miss running to catch the bus with my hands full of grease. Na! What am I talking about? I can't wait to throw myself head first into my new life with Rufus. I just adore everything about him.
And, you know, through this enormous adoration, I've ended up developing a bit of a habit; not a crack cocaine or marijuana habit or anything like that . . . no, no, that's not me at all. I don't even smoke, let alone indulge in illegal substances. No, I have a different, though equally addictive habit – it's a glossy mag habit. I'm totally obsessed with reading them because Rufus is in every one. He's certainly been in every copy of Heat magazine that's been published since we met; I know this because I've taken to cutting out articles about him and keeping them. The sad news for my flatmates is that there's nothing left of the magazines by the time I've finished with them. It's been driving poor Mandy and Sophie up the wall. They're halfway through a feature about Britney Spears' latest tremendous weight loss and, just as she's about to explain how she lost eight stone in two and a half hours, they turn the page and there's a Rufus-shaped hole cut out of it. 'Kellll . . .' I hear them cry, but there's nothing I can do to stop myself. I have to collect all the pictures I can of him; it's the only way in which I feel I have any sort of control over events. Like a teenage girl tracing the activities of her boy through the pages of Facebook, I find myself scanning every colourful, glossy sheet of the weekly magazines in the hope of catching a glimpse of him, entering into his world a little and, most importantly, checking there aren't any beautiful girls wriggling their nubile flesh too close to him.
There are pictures of my man striding across a sunbaked golf course with Tiger Woods, slapping Brad Pitt on the back in a manly fashion as they head out to dinner, and chatting companionably with Kofi Annan. He's pictured in designer clothing in sumptuous palaces, and looking mean and moody in camouflage gear as he meets the troops in Afghanistan. He is so way out of my league that he's in a league on a different planet altogether. And yet, somehow, he's fallen in love with me. Mandy and Sophie are the only people in the world who know about our relationship. I'm almost scared to tell anyone else; it's as if speaking the words 'I'm dating Rufus George' will break the spell and he'll look up, say 'Who the hell are you in cheap shoes, fake jewellery and with no Hollywood film deals? Get out of my life now, and send in Scarlett Johansson.' Things like this don't happen to normal girls like me.
'Will you be OK finding a new flatmate?' I ask Sophie. She's said hardly a word to me since I told them I was going to be moving in with my secret lover. I have to say that I'm worried about leaving the two of them in the lurch. Not worried enough to turn down Rufus's offer of co-habitation, you understand, but worried all the same. We've been best friends for years and have been through some great times together. These past eighteen months have been the best fun ever. We've gone out and got drunk together and stayed in and got drunk together; usually while watching terrible late night 'real crime' programmes and all the reality TV we can find. We've got a bit of a thing about this frightening woman called Zadine who's going out with Joe Collins, the footballer. She's the world's most awful person . . . fact!! She has massively inflated lips, enormous boobs and the level of intellect you'd expect from a footballer's girlfriend. She's on every reality TV show and we all give a loud cheer and vote for her whenever we see her on anything; just because she's so utterly rubbish and awful that it seems a laugh to keep her in the jungle or in the Big Brother house for as long as possible.
Whenever we're in together, we flock to the sitting room. I'd never think of sitting in my bedroom on my own. There'd be no point; you can't get any peace and quiet anyway. Our flat is tiny and you can hear everything that goes on through the badly decorated, paper-thin walls. It means there's nothing I don't know about either of my two lovely flatmates. I know things about them that I really shouldn't know. I've heard Sophie having sex on the counter in our horrible avocado-coloured kitchen that looks if it was painted by a blind man clutching a handful of moss and river weed. I've heard Mandy taking a bath with a man old enough to be her father. We heard him wheezing and coughing at one stage and Sophie and I sat on my bed choking with laughter about what on earth we'd do if he collapsed in there.
'We'd have to drag him out before the ambulance came,' Sophie said wisely. 'We couldn't have the paramedics going into the bathroom; it's horrible in there. We'd never live it down.' The prospect of the bathroom décor being revealed to strangers seemed so much worse to us than the prospect of them seeing the age of Mandy's aqua lover. And this is why . . .
Our bathroom's a kind of mucky caramel colour with very ornate brown swirly tiles which are immediately reminiscent of an Indian restaurant. The bath itself is all scratched and full of those nasty white watermarks that make it look as if it needs a good clean. Mandy did well to get him in there in the first place to be honest. There aren't many people who'd volunteer to bathe in there. Perhaps his eyesight wasn't what it used to be.
My bedroom was the worst decorated of all the rooms though when we moved in. My God, what were the previous occupants thinking? It was done out in a nasty shade of orange that reminded me of Oompa-Loompas. It had a kind of fluorescent quality to it which made your skin buckle when you looked at it. It wasn't wise to put the main light on unless you were wearing sunglasses, and even then it wasn't to be advised. A bit like looking directly at the midday sun, but with none of the vitamin D and tanning advantages. Even after two coats of cream emulsion the walls still glow a kind of carrot colour when the sun rises in the morning. I put up some rather tasteful and arty posters to distract from the worst of it – they are great; I nicked them from the theatre and they are huge, glossy, gleaming pictures of Hollywood greats. Audrey Hepburn peers down at me sheepishly with those wide-awake chocolate-coloured eyes, while Marilyn Monroe oozes so much sex appeal I fear it may all come gushing out of the picture in great waves and engulf me.
By common consensus, I made something of a triumph out of my tangerine-coloured abode. Which I was very glad about when I met Rufus. I'd have hated taking him in there when it was that vivid satsuma colour. The first time he came to the flat I spent the day on my hands and knees scrubbing the place to ensure that it was worthy of him. I washed the walls. (I know. How ridiculous is that? I mean – who washes walls? Girls inviting film stars home – that's who!) I Hoovered and polished and rearranged the furniture; when it was spotless, and looking as good as our flat ever does, I nipped out to see Katy (she's one of the girls at work) to borrow their cushions for the evening (we have a kind of time-share approach to soft furnishings). I got back clutching the tasteful, plump and homely cushions, to discover Sophie and Mandy lying on the sitting-room floor, both so drunk they couldn't speak, and accompanied by two of the bouncers from our local nightclub. They'd been drinking all afternoon. The girls both have Thursday afternoons off and go in an hour early in the morning to make up the time and so spend most Thursday afternoons in the pub.
The flat stank of beer, blokes and pizza when I walked in. Rufus was due in twenty minutes. Fuck. I stood there, open-mouthed, while the girls grabbed the cushions off me and promptly rested a large Pepperoni Feast on the top of them. 'Want some?' they asked.
'No. And you have to go!' I shouted. 'Don't you reme
mber? Rufus is coming.'
The girls giggled and smiled and looked like they didn't even remember their own names, let alone who was due to visit. When the bell rang I thought my heart would stop.
I opened the door slowly and tried to convince Rufus that we should go to a local pub instead. 'Come on, let me in. I wanna meet your roomies,' he said.
'OK. But don't say I didn't warn you.'
In the end, everything was fine. As it tends to be with him. He's so easy-going and fun that he was soon down on the floor, eating their pizza and phoning up to order more. We all got hammered. Rufus thought the flat was 'a pretty cute apartment'. He even said the sitting room was 'quaint and characterful' which is plain lying. The sitting room is one ugly-looking place. There's the old-fashioned fire that looks as if it belongs in an episode of Coronation Street circa 1970, and the jumble of mismatched sofas and scatter cushions plonked indiscriminately around the room as if they just dropped there from a great height, with no regard for artistry; a sea of oddly placed foam furniture vying for attention on a nasty-stained cream carpet.
'So, will you be OK?' I repeat.
'Of course we'll be OK,' says Sophie, pushing her short, light-brown hair behind her ears. There's the slightest hint of bitterness in her voice. 'Don't worry. We'll be absolutely fine. Just you concentrate on your new, exciting life without us.'
She winks as she speaks and gives me a smile, so I know she doesn't mean any nastiness, but I can tell she's worried about me. She thinks I'm about to enter a world I'm unprepared for. 'It's like sending a child to war,' she said rather dramatically, when I declared my intention to move to Richmond Hill. She's right; I couldn't be less prepared for a world of mega-stars and flash cars, but what do I do? I'm just going to have to rely on Rufus to guide me gently around the obstacles thrown up by life in the spotlight. He has done so far. Our dates have been a series of long and increasingly complex lessons in social etiquette on the road to refinement. I've gone from cherry-flavoured lip salve to cherry-coloured lipstick, and the comfy round neck jumpers and zip-up fleeces have been replaced by gently plunging necklines and wrap-around dresses
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