Celebrity Bride

by Alison Kervin

  'Are you completely and absolutely sure,' I say to Elody, but she just smiles knowingly in a way that is becoming intensely irritating.

  'The reason it's not in the papers is because they fought hard to keep it out of the papers. Theirs wasn't a celebrity relationship; it was the real thing. They adored one another. I think they still do, and that's why they're looking after one another like this.'

  Thanks a fucking lot. My feelings towards Elody definitely ebb and flow in direct proportion to her crassness and thoughtlessness. Some days I think she's really sweet and helpful and I don't know how I'd cope in this strange new world without her. On other days, such as when she's really winding me up about Rufus, I could strangle her. She seems so callous, so cruel and hurtful. I know I'm feeling particularly vulnerable because of the diet pills, which have left me feeling depressed and tired, but she's still way out of line sometimes.

  'I'm coming off these pills,' I tell her. 'They're turning me into a monster. I can't keep taking them and feeling this horrible.'

  'You can,' she insists. 'You just have to get through the difficulty of the first few weeks and you'll get used to them, and they'll get used to you.' Elody insists that if I persevere for another couple of weeks, I'll have dropped a stone in total by Christmas and that way I'll be able to guarantee that Rufus will forget all about the charms of Cindy and return to me.

  'What do you mean "return"?' I ask.

  'Well, she's attractive. He's away for weeks. He didn't tell you he was going, and he never mentioned that Olivia would be with him or that his ex-girlfriend was in the film. With the best will in the world, it does rather seem as if he's up to no good out there. I mean – what sort of evidence are you after, woman? Would you like a video of them having sex? Is that what you need?'

  'No,' I say. 'Of course not. But there isn't any evidence at all.'

  'That's because men are very good at hiding evidence, which, in itself, proves that they are having affairs. Have you been through all his things?'

  'Been through his things? No. Of course I haven't been through his things,' I say.

  'No?' Elody takes a step back in amazement and does nothing to hide her incomprehension. 'What sort of woman doesn't go through her husband's things when he's away with his hot, young and glamorous ex-girlfriend?'

  'He's not my husband,' I retort rather pedantically. My heart is racing, my head is throbbing and I feel like shit. Frankly, pedantic is about as good as it's going to get with me at the moment.

  'No, my love, and he never will be your husband unless you get a grip.' She illustrates this last point by gripping her tiny hands into tense bundles, squeezing them so tightly that all the sinews in her hands stand out; even the sinews in her scrawny neck have jumped to attention, making it look gnarled and knotted like the trunk of a tree. She looks old, and I feel myself strangely and rather uncharitably pleased by this.

  'Get a grip, ma petite fleur,' she continues, her eyes narrowing and her eyebrows struggling to raise themselves against the barrage of Botox in her forehead. 'A woman must do due diligence before committing to a man. Dahling, it is vital. Taking a husband is like buying a house or a business. You have to know what you're buying into. You have to be sure you're getting your money's worth. While he's away you have a perfect opportunity to pry; don't lose this valuable chance. He would be disappointed in you if he didn't think you were taking this relationship seriously. Now, I'm going out for a while to get my skin plumped so it looks its best for Friday night's party. I may be some time.'

  Elody disappears, clip-clopping dramatically down the wooden corridor. She probably likes to think she sounds like Marlene Dietrich; a fusion of drama and style wrapped up in arrogance and all personified in those tiny footsteps. The truth, though, is that she sounds more like a show horse. Once the sound of hooves has faded into the distance, I turn immediately to the room in front of me. Is she right? I suppose there would be no harm in looking through his things, if only to reassure myself that, as I suspect, he's not doing anything wrong.

  OK, let's try to be logical about this. Logic's not my strongpoint, to be fair, but I do need a little bit of it now. If I were a handsome Hollywood film star with things to hide from my depressed, overweight, unadventurous girlfriend, where would I hide them? With a speed that would impress Linford Christie, I'm straight onto the obvious places: the bedside cabinet, beneath the bed, in his sock drawer, in his cufflink drawer, his handkerchief drawer (yep, I know, a drawer – but he does have a lot of cufflinks and hankies, so he has to keep them somewhere). Nothing. Not even a slight hint that anything untoward has ever been there. In the boxer shorts drawer there are boxer shorts and in the tie drawer there is nothing but neatly rolled-up ties.

  In his office, where everything is so organised I'm worried about even standing there for fear of marking the walnut wood floor. I'm worried that my breath will mess up the carefully ordered air. Really, I've never known anything like this. I know he has tons of help, and that there are people racing around after him to tidy up with every step he takes, but still . . . to be this tidy . . . it's kind of weird. Well, to me it is. There's not a thing out of place. It looks like no one's ever been in here. It's like some derelict upper class gentleman's club in Mayfair that is no longer frequented but is still cleaned every day by diligent staff.

  To be honest, I don't know where to start when it comes to searching through his stuff. The idea that there'll be anything secreted away is quite absurd. Everything's so perfectly filed and organised. Honestly. How would he have something incriminating in here? The chances of finding a used condom in his scripts drawer, or a pair of lacy knickers in his file of rejected Broadway offers are about as likely as me finding out that my mother is actually Posh Spice. Added to the fact that it's desperately unlikely that I'll ever find anything of interest, is the realisation that I must exercise caution because there are CCTV cameras throughout the house. I'm hoping that Sam, the guy who heads up our security, will just think I've mislaid something and am searching for it, but I hope he doesn't work out that I'm a paranoid girlfriend looking for evidence of infidelity. What if I'm the latest in a long line of girlfriends who have behaved like this? Shit. The thought of Sam and the security guards all sitting around the TV screen saying, 'There she goes . . . just like all the others . . .' makes me feel quite queasy.

  I wonder how many girls he's brought back here. He told me he's only had one girlfriend since moving to England, and he saw her for a couple of weeks before they split up, but he could have brought other girls back – one-night stands or brief flings. Let's face it, he could have been lying to me, and actually have had hundreds of girlfriends. That's certainly the view that Elody has adopted.

  I'm swaying between a reluctance to behave badly and a determination to uncover the truth. If Rufus is being straight, then he has nothing to fear from my search through his office; if he's not being straight then he deserves everything he gets.

  I open the main drawer of his desk (walnut . . . everything in this room is walnut with a green leather desk pad and green leather cushion on the chair). In the drawer there's mainly stationery and a couple of personal notes that are bank related or film related or business related or agent related or blah, blah, blah, blah, blah . . . what's this? There's a small internal drawer at the back of the main drawer which doesn't open . . . that must be where he keeps all sorts of incriminating things that he doesn't want me to see. Shit. Where can the key be? I'm going through every drawer in a mad hurry now – not searching for photos or letters as I was previously, but for a key to let myself into this drawer that I'm convinced must contain something incriminating, derogatory or downright mean. My conviction that the drawer is full of proof of misbehaviour strengthens with every moment that I can't find the key.

  Why would someone have a drawer within a drawer that's locked and no sign of a key anywhere? If that's not dodgy then I don't know what is. Clearly there are things in the drawer that he doesn't want me to see . . . why els
e would it be all locked up like this? Has he taken the key with him? I have to get into that drawer. A hammer? If I could splinter the front of the drawer and stick my fingers inside, at least I'd know what was in there. Then if I could feel something that concerned me unduly, I could take the whole drawer out. If not, it would be easy enough to get someone to repair some splintered wood.

  I reach up and open the glass case on the wall, which contains many of Rufus's awards and gifts. Most of the very expensive things are kept in a big vault under the house that no one in the world knows about. (When I moved in, he asked me whether I had anything very expensive that I wanted to put in there for safe-keeping . . . er . . . no! The only valuables in my possession are my lovely jewellery box and the things that Rufus buys me, and there's no way I want those hidden away. I want them with me so I can see them, touch them and enjoy them.) But he keeps some things in the cabinet that he likes to look at. One of those things is a big, chunky dagger, covered in jewels. It's magnificent. Apparently, it was presented to Rufus by the Prime Minister of India and two Bollywood stars, when he went there with the United Nations food programme. They gave it to him to celebrate his Oscar for The Jewelled Dagger.

  I pick it up, feeling the weight between my fingers, and begin smashing into the little drawer. I smash some more until the front of the drawer is reduced to splinters of wood. There's nothing in there. Shit. I drop the dagger onto the floor with a dramatic flourish.

  'Kelly?'

  I spin round like a woman possessed to see Julie standing there. 'What is it?' I spit out. I don't mean to sound so venomous but I'm embarrassed. I had no idea she was there.

  'Are you OK?' she asks.

  'I'm fine.'

  'There's something I wanted to mention. I mean, it's none of my business and I'm guessing now's not a good time but I've been trying to talk to you over the last couple of days, when you've been on your own, away from Elody, but this is the first chance I've had.'

  'What is it?' I ask impatiently. It feels like everything's falling apart around me. I'm not really in the mood for guessing games with this woman, however much I like her.

  'It's just that a lot of letters have come for you, and Elody takes them all. A letter came this morning marked "URGENT – please, please give this to Kelly Monsoon". I pulled it out of the pile to make sure that it went straight to you, but when Elody left, she took it with her, as she always takes all your letters.'

  'Why does she take my letters?'

  'I don't know. She told us that all your post was being dealt with by her people.'

  'Oh.' The truth is that I didn't know that I'd even had any letters. Why would Elody have taken everything? Unless she does have a secretary somewhere sorting them out for me? Still, she should have checked with me first to make sure that's what I wanted to happen to them. And what happens when they're sorted out? Will she bring them back?

  'Thanks,' I say, managing to force out a smile as Julie backs out of the room.

  Chapter 15

  'Elody. It's me, Kelly. Where are you?'

  I need to ask her about these bloody letters and to tell her that there's nothing untoward in the house. There's no sign of any improper behaviour from Rufus at all. In fact, the only improper behaviour is from her – nicking all my post. And from me – breaking into my boyfriend's desk with his treasured dagger.

  Elody has only just left the beauticians, but she senses the urgency in my voice and, more likely, is thrilled by the sound of the devastation I've caused in Rufus's office, so promises she'll come over as soon as she possibly can and explain to me where the letters are and why she took them.

  'I'll be there before you can say "Gucci",' she says. 'Once I've dealt with some essentials, I'll be with you.' The essentials, it turns out, are waiting for her nails to dry and buying a sparkly clutch bag with matching sequined purse. By the time she arrives, I'm frantic.

  'I took your letters so we could check there was nothing rude or offensive in them,' she says. 'You're on the verge of being famous. There are nutters out there. Of course I sent your letters to be opened independently. Rufus would never forgive me if I didn't.'

  'So, where are they now?'

  'They're being catalogued, but don't worry – I'll drop them all in tomorrow morning for you to have. They're just letters, Kelly. Don't get so het up. Now, show me the desk.'

  I take Elody into Rufus's office.

  'You smashed it up with this?' says Elody, quizzically, pointing to the hefty, heavily bejewelled dagger that's lying on Rufus's chair. She notices the blood on the top of the blade.

  'Ooooo . . . blood.'

  'Yes,' I say. 'I had to give it quite a whack. My hand slipped and I cut my fingers.'

  'This is the award he received from India.'

  'I know.'

  'It's priceless,' she continues.

  'I realise that.'

  'It shouldn't even be in here. It should be in the safe under the house.'

  How the hell does she know there's a safe under the house? Rufus said that no one knew about that.

  'I realise that it was given to him and that it's precious.' I'm all too well aware that it's supposed to represent the jewelled dagger from his Oscar-winning film. I know all that. 'I just wasn't thinking and I grabbed it and used it to ram open the drawer,' I try to explain.

  'Well, was that wise?'

  Der! Wise . . . fucking wise? No of course it wasn't wise.

  'It doesn't matter,' she says dismissively. 'Tell me what was in there?' Her limited interest in my welfare is now overruled by her fascination with what secrets I may have uncovered. 'Well . . . what was there?' she demands, starring into my eyes so fiercely that I feel myself shiver. 'Tell me you found something or I'll be furious. You dragged me away from the fucking shops.'

  Fuck. I suddenly feel scared. I see her look over at the dagger and it occurs to me that she could kill me. Oh God. There's no one on this floor of the house. Her eyes look as dark as night. For the first time in my life I feel genuinely worried that a woman is going to hurt me.

  'There was nothing in there,' I say almost apologetically. 'Sorry, but there wasn't.'

  I just want her to go now. I should never have asked her to come back here. She's really scaring me.

  'There was nothing in there? Nothing!' she exclaims. 'Why did you make me come here?'

  'I wanted to know about the letters. That's why I called you, then I mentioned that I'd found nothing in Rufus's room. I told you about the damage because I was desperate and thought you could help me mend the desk. You know, help me find a carpenter.'

  'No,' she says. 'I don't "do" household repairs. Get David to sort it.'

  'But I need to keep this quiet from Rufus, I can't involve David.'

  'Well, I can't help – I'm still reeling from disappointment that you didn't find anything.'

  'Disappointment? I'm glad I didn't find anything. It would have been awful to find that he'd been unfaithful. I have to say that I'm relieved. What were you expecting me to find?'

  'Something that allowed you to know for sure. You know . . . just something that would tell you once and for all what he'd been up to.'

  'Well, the fact that I've found nothing means I know for sure, as far as I'm concerned. Look, I'm sorry that I dragged you over here. I'll get Henry to drive you back.'

  'No. I'm not going anywhere until I've talked some sense into you,' she says, clenching her fists in horror and screwing up her face. This is not a good look for her, but I sense that this would be the wrong time to tell her that. 'Finding nothing means you are a bad hunter . . . or it means he's a good hider . . . or it means he destroys the evidence as he's going along. It doesn't mean he's got nothing to hide.'

  She's all hunched over like Inspector Clouseau as she speaks. I expect her to pull out a magnifying glass. 'Men are always cheating on women,' she says. 'They are . . . that's what they are doing . . . all of the time. The fact that you can't prove it is your fault. There are things to find, Kelly; w
hy haven't you found them?'

  'Elody,' I say, my exasperation showing through. I can be as paranoid as the next woman but, for Christ's sake, this is getting ridiculous. 'Let's just stop this now. I know there's nothing to worry about. Everything's fine. I just need to get on with my life and stop worrying. I need to stop taking these pills and get myself thinking rationally for a change.'

  'Stop the diet pills? Are you insane?' she cries. 'Are you?' She grabs me by the shoulders and shakes me. 'You have to keep taking the pills. You have to. Don't let me down. Don't make me look a fool.'

  She turns and sits down, examining her eyebrows in a small hand mirror.

  What's wrong with her? It's like she's taken leave of her senses.

  'Get someone to make me tea,' she instructs. 'Call the staff. I need green tea.'

  Her presence in the house is choking me. I want her gone, so I can sort all this mess out.

  'It's time for you to go,' I try.

  'You called me and I came,' she is sneering at me as she speaks, in the same way as I've seen her sneer at so many people . . . people like Mandy and Sophie. How I wish the girls were here now. They'd be encouraging me, reassuring me, helping me and distracting me. They'd have troubles of their own that they wanted to share. I'd help them and our friendship would build on our sharing and helping. God, but life's so different with these women I've met through Rufus, or certainly with Elody it is.

  She sees that I do not move to get her green tea, so she stands up, packing away her little hand mirror.

  'Fine,' she says. 'I'm going. You are no friend. Stay fat if that's what you want. Look frumpy. I can do nothing else.'

  Elody storms out, slamming doors and barging past the staff in the corridors. As the front door shuts behind her I collapse into Rufus's armchair and utter an almighty sigh of relief. Thank God she's gone. I was genuinely scared for a minute there; scared she'd turn on me.