Celebrity Bride

by Alison Kervin

  Christ, you'd think I had been away fighting a war for five years.

  'Where will I sit?' I ask, realising that it's my desk that has disappeared!

  'Ah yes,' says Sebastian. 'We've been thinking about that, and I spoke to Rufus this morning. We rather thought it might be a little difficult for you to sit with the other girls and be so highly visible to all who come into the theatre. Given the interest in the press, we thought it might suit everyone if you were to be given your own special office.'

  Now, I'll admit, just a few months ago, the idea of my own special office, indeed my own office – whether special or not – would have been overwhelmingly exciting to me, but so much has happened, so much in my life has changed – where I live, how I live, how I'm seen, how people speak to me – that the very idea my own self is changing scares me and I really want some things just to stay the same and be part of the old 'me'. It's a small thing, but I want my desk back. I want the messy drawers and the dog-eared books and the Post-it notes everywhere reminding me to do things because I'm always forgetting.

  'Can I just have my desk back?' I ask.

  'The office we've got earmarked for you is much nicer than the one you were in,' says Sebastian kindly. He can see the way my face has fallen.

  'I know, and I appreciate it,' I say, not wanting to offend, 'but I'd like to sit with my friends and go back to working the way I did before.'

  One of the things I love about my job is being around the buzz of theatre life, and seeing the various people come and go: the set designers and costume-makers, and the odd actor drifting in and out. It's not going to be anything like the same if I'm stuck upstairs in a tiny office of my own. Sebastian can see how reluctant I am, but he's stuck.

  'Do me a favour, go into this new office upstairs just for now, will you? I'll call Rufus and see what he thinks.'

  'Rufus isn't my boss,' I say and I notice the look in Sebastian's eyes. If it weren't for the money that Rufus's presence in the play brought in, we'd all be out of a job. Rufus may not be my boss, but he's providing all of us with a living, so his needs must be met.

  'You can look through the marketing leaflets,' he says, by way of compromise. 'Make a note of anything you think needs changing.'

  I walk into the office and call Rufus straight away, hanging up like a schoolgirl when Christine answers. I just can't face talking to her right now. I want to talk to Rufus and to explain to him why it's so important for me to have some semblance of normality back. I need him to understand why I need to be within touching distance of the real world.

  While I scan through the marketing leaflets, I hear the girls arriving downstairs. The kettle goes on and small talk is exchanged: what they bought at the weekend, what they spent, who they kissed. The yearning to go and join in is almost physical. I feel a need to see them and remind myself that my old life is there, still, waiting for me to reclaim it. I grab the box of Maltesers and tiptoe down the stairs towards the main office; I want to burst in and surprise them with my chocolates. As I creep down the old wooden staircase, excitement rising in me, I start to tear at the plastic covering on the chocolates. I want the box open when I walk in so I can burst in through the door and start pelting them with chocolates. I tear at the cellophane with my teeth, smudging my lipstick in my efforts to get the box open. There, at last, the plastic tears and I begin to remove it. Ha . . . this is going to be fun.

  'Where's Kell? Is she back today?' I hear Katy ask. 'I'm dying to hear how it's all going with Rufus. Blimey, she kept that relationship quiet.'

  'Did you see the paper today?' says Jenny. 'She's got herself into all sorts of trouble – flirting with some old guy in front of Rufus.'

  I hear the rustle of newspaper and the stifling of laughter from the girls.

  'Fuck. That guy's like eighty!' says Jenny, and I can hear the distaste in her voice. This is the thing with newspapers: people read them and believe them. Jenny and Katy have known me for bloody years, but they'll believe something written in the newspaper in a heartbeat, without considering whether it might be true or not.

  'Why would she do that?' muses Katy. 'It seems odd.'

  Thank you, I think to myself. Thank you for thinking that I just might not be capable of this.

  'Wow . . . look at this,' says Jenny.

  'God, that's beautiful. Must have cost a bloody fortune,' I hear Katy say.

  'It's Kelly's,' says Sebastian, and I realise they're talking about the coat that I've left hanging up in the office. The one I only brought in today to show them, because I knew how much they'd like to see it.

  'So she's here,' says Jenny.

  'Yes. She's going to be working in her own office from now on,' I hear Sebastian say.

  'Her own office?' Disgust, amazement and horror combine in Katy's voice to give it a slightly high-pitched edge. She couldn't sound more stunned if Sebastian had told her that I had just become Prime Minister. 'How can she have her own office? She's junior to us.'

  'We thought it was for the best,' said Sebastian and the pause that follows is all twisted up with the frustrations of the girls. Shit. I just know what's coming next and I can't blame them one bit; I know how this must seem to them.

  'I guess getting your own office isn't something you work for any more. It's something you get if you shag the right person.'

  Now if I were a more confident woman I'd storm out there and challenge them. I'd explain that I had been really looking forward to coming back to work and seeing them. I'd show them the box of Maltesers in my bag. Oh yeah – box. Not packet. Box of Maltesers. We've never had boxes of Maltesers before.

  'Come on now,' says Sebastian. 'What was I supposed to do? The press are following her everywhere. They're outside; look. She'd just be hassled all day. It would have become incredibly distracting to have her here, in full view of people walking past on the streets. She's in the upstairs office and I've just got her going through the marketing brochures, proof-reading them.'

  Oh God.

  'Proof-reading them? Why is she now qualified to proofread them?'

  I know what they're not saying. I know how the sentence ends. The unsaid words are screaming at me so loudly I can hardly bear it. 'Why's she qualified to proof-read just cos she's shagging Rufus?'

  And the thing is – I don't know. I don't understand why people are taking me more seriously and treating me differently. I don't understand why people call me 'Miss Monsoon' and open doors for me. I don't understand why it's assumed that I'm more competent, able and sophisticated because I'm having a relationship with Rufus. It's about the power of celebrity. It's as if the fact that Rufus has given me the seal of approval means I'm better than they ever thought I was.

  What's strange to me is that this is all happening now when I've actually been going out with Rufus for ages. It's because people have just been alerted to our relationship, so they're only just seeing me differently. So it's not about who I am or what I'm capable of because I've been Rufus's girlfriend for months, it's very much about how I am perceived now that they know. This is what celebrity is all about, and I'm right in the centre of it all without requesting it, desiring it or wanting it.

  Right now I feel like celebrity's most innocent victim. I'm well aware that if my relationship with Rufus were to finish tomorrow and I were to be hurled back down through the layers of pearls and champagne, into the world of the real people, all my privileges would disappear as fast as they arrived. I'd still have the cashmere coats and beautiful silk dresses but they would not suit me quite as well because I would be Kelly rather than Miss Monsoon.

  I turn and walk back up the stairs, still holding the box of chocolates and the torn plastic covering in my hands. I don't want to go down to talk to the girls, and though they pop up to say hello later on, there's nothing like the warmth between us that there was before. So much between us has changed. So much between me and people's perception of me has changed.

  In the end I proof-read the marketing leaflet with little convic
tion or enthusiasm. This is the job I always wanted and I guess this is the office I would have dreamed of, but I feel hollow and, above all, bored out of my mind. Googling Cindy Kearney doesn't help in the least because she's truly beautiful. She's stunning in that all-American, blonde Californian way. I think I was born heavier than she is. I can't compete with anything this woman has: her looks, her skills as an actress, her fame and her sophistication. I'm fat Kelly from Hastings. I've never felt so low. There are only two people in the world who I can talk to at a time like this: Mandy and Sophie . . . my sisters in arms.

  'I'm ugly and fat,' I wail into the phone.

  'Kell, it's difficult to talk right now,' says Sophie under her breath. 'My boss is around.'

  'Oh,' I say, and it feels like a personal slight.

  'Sorry,' whispers Sophie. 'I'll see you on Wednesday night for Mandy's party. And . . . for the record, you're neither fat nor ugly. You're going out with the world's most gorgeous man, for God's sake. Doesn't that tell you anything?'

  Yep, what it tells me is that no matter who you go out with or what happens to you externally in this world, if you feel crap inside, you feel crap inside – end of story. I'm going to the Rose Garden to sit on a bench with no name and watch the butterflies play.

  Chapter 8

  Rufus couldn't have been kinder or more understanding. When I got back from work and told him how hard I found it, he apologised madly and said of course he understood and felt bad; it was all his fault that I was going through this.

  'I know you're not going to want me to say this, sweetheart,' he said. 'But I think you should give up the job; it's going to be too hard for you to carry on. Have a think about it.'

  'But I like my job. It's all I've got,' I said.

  'You've got me,' he insisted.

  Now it's Wednesday evening and we're in the car on the way to Heathrow Airport for Rufus to catch a flight to LA. The car glides through the traffic, with Henry at the wheel.

  'I talked to Sebastian today,' he says. 'I suggested that you take a month off to have a think about things and get settled in. Just say if you'd rather not, but I think there'll be a lot of adjusting for you to do, and it might make things easier all round. What do you think?'

  I feel like everything's slipping away from me, that's what I think. My flat, my friends, my old life and now my job. There'll be nothing left of me; I'll just be a female-shaped extension to him.

  'I'll try to think of some more sensible solutions to this conundrum in the long term,' he says. 'But for now, with me going away and everything, wouldn't it be better for you to have a break from the theatre and get settled in and adjusted to your new life?'

  All I really want is for Rufus to give me a hug, of course, but he's a man, so he has to come up with some practical answers to pull me back from the emotional pit I'm staggering into. My fears for my own life are all caught up in broader fears for us. Rufus is off to LA. He'll be accompanied by Olivia, if Elody's right, and I see no reason why she wouldn't be. But what the hell is Olivia going for? I don't understand. It seems so odd. To make matters worse, when he gets there, he'll be starring with Cindy Kearney – the world's most beautiful woman, and Rufus's ex. Fuck! I don't think I'd have got through these past couple of days without Elody; she's been absolutely amazing – there whenever I've needed her. She's been quite fun as well, at times. We've had quite a laugh. Well, maybe 'laugh' is overstating it, but I have enjoyed her company. It's been nice to find a new friend, and she does make me giggle.

  'I hate having to leave you so soon after you've moved in,' says Rufus. 'This promotional tour has come at the worst time imaginable. Will you be all right? Make yourself at home in the house; invite friends over, redecorate . . . anything. OK?'

  He does seem genuinely concerned about whether I'll be OK, which is touching. Not half as touching as it would have been if he'd asked me to go to bloody LA with him, of course, but touching all the same.

  'I might do something in the snug,' I warn him. 'I'd love to fill it with flowers and plants and make it come to life.'

  'Be my guest,' he says with a smile. 'I guess the whole place does rather lack a woman's touch.' He gives me the most almighty squeeze then. 'Ahhh . . . I wish you could come,' he says. 'But you'd be bored out of your mind. It's all back-to-back meetings, interviews and press conferences. I won't even get the time to meet up with Courty and Deeves.'

  I look over at him; his handsome face is a picture of concentration. I guess he must be in for a busy time if he won't get to see his two oldest mates; he loves those guys.

  'You'll be all right, won't you?' he repeats. 'I do worry about you.'

  'I'll be OK,' I say, and I will, because I've got loads planned. Tonight is Mandy's thirtieth birthday and she's having a huge party at The Sun – this pub in Richmond that we often go to. We know loads of people in there, and now I'm living in Richmond it's about five minutes away from my house. I'm planning to turn up there to surprise Mandy (Sophie knows I'm coming but we thought it would be fun not to tell Mandy) and to get my relationship with the two of them back on track. I haven't really talked to them properly since I left the flat. We've had odd snatched conversations and loads of texting, but nothing like it used to be. It's funny, but I've never had to try that hard with my friends before. Every morning I'd wake up and Mandy and Sophie would be there. I'd hear about the great things and hear about the bad things. I was there to offer support when the call came through that Mandy's mum had died. I also remember sharing in Sophie's joy when she got a call to say that she'd got a new job.

  Then I'd go into the office and sit down next to Katy and Jenny, and we'd chat about life. If Mandy or Sophie were having problems in their love lives, and none of us could work out what to do, I'd solicit the help of Kath and Jenny, and they'd offer their advice, which I'd then feedback to the girls. Jenny and Katy did the same things with their flatmates and between the load of us we had a kind of network that buzzed and fizzled with advice and feedback. We've helped each other so much over the years; I'll never forget how brilliant everyone was to me when the drink-driving thing happened. They couldn't have been kinder. They helped by driving me around when I needed a lift and telling me not to worry. They were there for me when I really needed help, all of them.

  'Well, could you not have an arrangement to meet the other girls for coffee at regular intervals through the week?' he suggested to me in an entirely reasonable way, but it just misses the point that going to work, for me, was never about pre-arranged outings, it was about the camaraderie of rubbing alongside other people during the day and getting to know them and understand them.

  Now it's all about scheduling coffee a week on Friday. I have to be honest; it feels like something very important and worthwhile has just seeped out of my life. I'm also realising for the first time in my life how hard it is to get hold of someone when they don't have a mobile phone. People always complained that they couldn't get hold of Mandy and that she should get a mobile, but I thought they just weren't trying hard enough. It turns out that they're right, and it is actually very tough to get hold of Mand. It doesn't help that the girls can't be contacted at work because they're in jobs where they deal with the public, so are never free to talk. The bloody home phone's touch and go, so I'm relying one hundred per cent on Sophie for all communications, through her mobile phone. I send texts and we do talk a fair bit, but it's just not the same.

  Thank God for Elody popping round, calling me up and stepping into my life to replace the friendships that have dwindled so significantly before my eyes.

  'I've told Sebastian that you won't be in tomorrow again,' says Rufus. 'Just to give you some time to think this whole thing through and work out what you want to do about the job; whether you want to carry on or not. I do recommend taking a month to yourself to adjust to all this though. I think it would be the best thing.'

  What has become clear these past two days is that Rufus never rated my job very highly, and really and truly he doesn't un
derstand why I don't just give it all up. It brings in, annually, less than he earns in a minute for his films, so financially it makes no sense for me to endure a job that no longer pleases or excites me. I can see his point but what the fuck am I going to do all day without it? I suppose I could do an art course. I've always fancied doing jewellery-making or something like that. Perhaps Elody could help me find a course that's really good. And it would be nice to relax and focus on me for a while, especially since there's no shortage of money. I could even do charity work.

  'Thanks,' I say to Rufus. 'It'll give me time to think things through. I hadn't quite worked out how different everything would become once we got together.'

  'Well, my lovely lady, things are different now, but different in a good way. You can stop worrying about working so hard and concentrate on enjoying yourself.' He slips his arm around me and I nestle up to his broad chest, feeling his heart beat through the soft cashmere of his jumper. There we remain, silent, warm and happy, while Henry hurls the car through the traffic and out towards the airport.

  Mum is on the phone as soon as I walk out of the airport building. The police took me through a secret back door so I didn't have to go anywhere near the loitering paparazzi outside.

  'Has he gone?' she asks.

  'He has,' I say weakly.

  'Shall we come and stay while he's away? You know, to look after you.'

  I love my mum to death, but the very thought of her and Dad descending on me is more than I can bear.

  'Don't worry. I'll be OK,' I say.

  'Well, we'll just come for one night then. I promised Maude.'

  Oh God. Not Great-Aunt Maude in the house, hurling herself onto the floor screaming for the air-raid shelter whenever a car backfires or someone slams a door.

  'I'll bring her one day next week,' says Mum and I'm too emotionally drained to argue any further so I just say, 'Yes,' in a half-hearted way as I approach the car. Henry gives me a warm, welcoming smile and opens the door. I've slipped on my sunglasses to hide the fact that I've been crying incessantly since Rufus left, but the telltale signs are there: the gentle snivelling as I slide into the back seat and the tracks left in my freshly applied make-up.