The Reluctant Celebrity

by Ellingham, Laurie

  The Reluctant Celebrity

  Laurie Ellingham

  Text Copyright © 2014 Laurie Ellingham

  All rights Reserved

  Table of Contents

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-one

  Twenty-two

  Twenty-three

  Twenty-four

  Twenty-five

  Twenty-six

  Twenty-seven

  Twenty-eight

  Twenty-nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-one

  Thirty-two

  Thirty-three

  Thirty-four

  Thirty-five

  Thirty-six

  Thirty-seven

  Thirty-eight

  Thirty-nine

  One

  THE DAILY

  FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 14TH

  THE MOST ROMANTIC GUY IN BRITAIN

  Britain’s top hunk, Guy Rawson, has swapped the catwalk for the recording studio to pursue his “one true love.”

  In an exclusive interview with The Daily’s celebrity reporter Sara-Marie Frances, Guy, 27, said: “I’ve really enjoyed modelling, it has got me where I am today, but my passion has always been for music. It’s something I have to do now.”

  The model, who shot to fame five years ago as the face of GiGi Sport’s wear, and has since dominated the catwalk with his famous moody pose, was nothing but smiles as he explained: “The last six months have been the best. I’ve spent every day in the studio writing and recording. I really hope the public love my album as much as I do.”

  But when the topic moved to romance the star was quick to dismiss rumours of a relationship with a well-known blonde Hollywood starlet and instead intimately revealed that he was still hopelessly in love with his first girlfriend, Juliet. “I didn’t realise it at the time, but every song I’ve written has been for her. Juliet is the most fantastic person I’ve ever met. I still love her.”

  Speaking about his debut single ‘Regret’ he revealed: “It’s how I feel everyday when I think about her. I was young and stupid. She was my first love and has been my only love.”

  With other songs on the album including ‘Who is your Romeo now?’ and ‘A goodbye fool’ it looks like Guy will need his very own cupid this Valentine’s Day.

  ‘Regret’, officially released on Monday, has already climbed to number 10 in the charts through radio play alone, and is tipped to go straight to the top spot in Sunday’s chart show. The album also titled ‘Regret’ is released later this month.

  Good luck Guy, The Daily will be first in line for the album.

  Above: Gorgeous Guy and his sexy ex, Juliet, then 20

  Saturday 15th February, 6.45pm

  ‘Oh no. No, no, no, no, no,’ Jules shrieked as she stepped into the darkness of her new house, instantly covering her chocolate brown Uggs in a thick layer of dust.

  Clumps of what looked like plaster covered every available inch of her living room. The bare light bulb from the hallway was more than enough to illuminate the gaping hole into the bedroom above.

  ‘This can’t be happening,’ Jules cried out again as she struggled to comprehend the mess in front of her.

  ‘Hello? Did someone just say something?’ A woman’s voice called out from somewhere above her.

  ‘Yes hello,’ Jules called back, swallowing hard in a futile attempt to push back the lump of panic which had ballooned in her throat. ‘I’m the new owner.’

  ‘Hang on lovey; be with you in a tick. DAN, JASON, GET DOWN HERE WILL YOU, SHE’S ARRIVED AND BE CAREFUL WHERE YOU’RE STEPPING THIS TIME!’ A shower of dirt streamed from the ceiling as what sounded like elephants stomped above her.

  ‘Oh thank goodness! I thought I was hearing voices again.’

  Jules spun around to find a small forty-something woman in white overalls hopping through the debris towards her. Two tall and lanky teenage boys trailed sheepishly behind her.

  ‘But here you are,’ the woman smiled, reaching Jules and instantly enveloping her in a tight hug.

  ‘Voices?’ Jules asked releasing herself from the embrace.

  ‘It’s the—’ one of the boys began before the woman cut him off.

  ‘Never mind about that Daniel, can’t you see this lady has had enough of a shock without you adding to it.’

  ‘Sorry mum,’ he mumbled.

  ‘Um, would someone mind telling me what exactly is going on here?’ Jules asked, waving her hands across the wreckage.

  ‘Gosh where are my manners, eh? I’m Terri and these are my boys, Daniel and Jason. We’re Cottinghale’s one and only builders and decorators.’

  ‘I’m Jules Stewart.’

  ‘How pretty. Short for Juliet is it Lovey?’

  ‘No, it’s just Jules.’

  ‘Well we were expecting you yesterday Jules. That’s what Dennis told us, but he often gets in a muddle about his days.’

  ‘Dennis the estate agent?’ Jules asked, thinking back to the boy barely out of school who had stammered his way through the house viewing last month.

  ‘That’s right lovey. He’s my nephew. A sweet boy, but as thick as two short planks wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘I...I’m still not sure what has happened?’ Jules asked again, hoping Terri wouldn’t press her for an answer about her nephew and the level of his intellect.

  ‘No of course you’re not. The thing is...’ Terri paused, casting a stony stare back towards Daniel and Jason, still lingering in the door way. ‘These two...God, there isn’t even a word for them. You raise them up as best as you can. I’m a single mum you see. There dad ran off with bloody Dawn from the Post Office, leaving me with two boisterous toddlers eating me out of house and home.

  ‘You do what you think is best, help them with their home work, teach them a trade, that kind of thing, all the while assuming they are developing a sense of right and wrong. You see a light at the end of the tunnel, they show some basic human skills, and then like bloody criminals, they sneak in here for a look about and...’

  ‘Alright mum,’ Daniel cut in. ‘We get it. We know we were wrong and we really are sorry, but how were we supposed to know the whole ceiling would come down? We barely even stepped into the bedroom and it just went.’

  The look Terri gave her son reminded Jules of the look her own mother used when she battled shoppers for the best bargains in the January sales. ‘The important thing,’ she said, turning back to Jules. ‘Is that we will fix it. I’ve taken a look and from what I can see it’s just one lathe that needs replacing, the rest are fine. We’ll have this mess cleared away and a new ceiling back up in no time. I’ve already put a call into my brother Tom, he does plastering you see. Anyway, he’ll pop in as soon as we’re fixed up.

  ‘Right,’ Jules nodded with a feeling of helplessness. What were lathes? And what kind of hell had she just walked into? Jules attempted a calming breath, filling her mouth with the millions upon millions of dirt particles floating in the air.

  ‘For free of course and we’ll pay for your stay at Mrs Beckwith’s whilst we clear out this dust. Lord knows you can’t stay here.’

  ‘I’m sorry, who is Mrs Beckwith?’ Jules choked. It felt as if she had tuned into a soap opera half way through and couldn’t quite figure out what was going on.

  ‘You’ll love her. She runs a
Bed and Breakfast down the road. She’s as sweet as apple crumble. I phoned earlier so she’s expecting you.’

  ‘I can’t believe this,’ Jules mumbled almost to herself as she cast another look around the room. To say her first project as a property developer wasn’t off to the best of starts was an understatement of drastic proportions.

  ‘I’m truly sorry,’ Terri said, taking Jules’ hand. ‘Very very sorry.’

  ‘It’s not your fault. Well actually it is, but it’s okay. I just...I just feel a bit out of my depth,’ she admitted as the painful lump expanded back into her throat.

  ‘Come on lovey, let’s get you outside. Staying in this room too long is no good for the lungs. It will all look better in the day light tomorrow,’ Terri soothed, pulling Jules gently towards the front door.

  ‘What are all these papers doing here?’ Jules asked, noticing for the first time the knee-high stacks of newspapers piled neatly against the wall, leading all the way from the front door to the kitchen.

  ‘Oh don’t worry about those. Stan at the shop can explain,’ Terri answered quickly, ‘We’ll clear them out with the rest of this mess just as soon as the skip arrives.’

  ‘But I didn’t order any papers. There must be hundreds of them.’ Jules felt the first throb of a headache wind its way behind her eyes.

  ‘From what I gather the previous … err … owner paid for a lifetime’s delivery in her will and, well, Stan didn’t want to go against her wishes.’

  ‘But that’s ridiculous,’ she exclaimed picking up the newspaper nearest to her, ‘This one has yesterday’s date on it. Why on earth would anyone keep delivering papers...?’ Jules broke off as a gut punch of recognition ricocheted through her, sucking the breath out of her lungs.

  She staggered back, pulling away from Terri’s hold, her mind failing to make sense of what her eyes were showing her. The girl in the photograph on the front page was sickeningly familiar. The bleached blonde pixie cut, the pink highlights and the clashing red platforms. It was nothing like how Jules looked now with her long brown hair, always tied back, and her understated wardrobe, but that wide smile grinning back at her - Jules knew it instantly, even after all this time.

  ‘Are you alright Lovey?’ Terri asked, cutting into Jules’ racing mind. ‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’

  ‘I … I …’ Jules stammered, her voice barely a whisper. ‘I’m fine. I just thought I saw something, it’s nothing,’ she replied, noting the looks of concern crossing between the boys and their mother. Had they seen the photograph too? Did they know it was her? Jules wondered with escalating horror, stuffing the newspaper deep into the pocket of her olive green Parker.

  ‘Right everyone outside before we all breathe in any more of this dust,’ Terri commanded, moving her arms to shoo her boys and Jules outside. ‘Once you’ve had a hot shower and are tucked up with a cup of tea at Mrs Beckwith’s none of this will seem so bad.’

  Jules felt her head nod as she allowed herself to be ushered into the clear crisp February evening. Five years of being in control of her own life and just like that he could swoop in and destroy it all again.

  As Terri’s headlights disappeared from view, Jules fought the urge to pull out the newspaper from her pocket. The full moon, which had illuminated her driveway a short time earlier, had since been swallowed by endless cloud, leaving her in complete darkness. For the first time since her arrival in Cottinghale, Jules stared out at her surroundings, which right now looked like a wall of inky black closing in from every direction.

  Jules stumbled one foot in front of the other towards Mrs Beckwith’s guesthouse, filled with a sudden longing for the familiar orange streetlights that had blanketed Reading, and which she had, until that very moment, loathed. The silence she had longed for in the city now seemed eerie.

  What she wouldn’t give for the incessant hum of a motorway to comfort her – anything, in fact, that would make her feel more like the confident, independent woman she was, instead of a character from the opening scenes of a teen horror film; the one that always got killed. As if answering her wish, a bright security light jumped on, lighting her way to a small blue front door.

  Before Jules could knock an elderly woman in a floral housecoat and fraying thick cardigan opened the door, peering at Jules through one-inch thick glasses.

  ‘Mrs Beckwith? I’m Jules Stewart. I believe Terri has booked me a room.’

  ‘Of course. Welcome, welcome, please come in. How nice to meet a new resident in our little hamlet. I can’t tell you how excited we all are to have you here.’

  Jules opened her mouth to correct the elderly lady. She had no plans to remain in Cottinghale long enough to be considered a resident, but as she stepped into the hallway the words disappeared.

  In the instant the front door closed behind her, Jules felt the tiny hairs on the back of her neck prick up, as if a million pairs of eyes had set their gaze on her. Yet, other than the frail body of Mrs Beckwith, they seemed to be alone. That was until she saw them, lining the shelf above the radiator, and every other available surface in Mrs Beckwith’s house. Tiny brass animals of every kind imaginable – owls, tigers, mice, monkeys. Their beady black eyes staring out at her.

  ‘This is the living room,’ the old lady explained as she led Jules into a room at the front of the house straight out of the 1950s.

  Four high-backed maroon chairs with white lacy doilies on the arms and head rests consumed the room, all pointing at an old television with wood-panelled sides that looked as if it had been there for more years than Jules had been alive.

  ‘I’ve got my own annex off from the kitchen so you’re welcome to spend as much time in here as you like. I’m afraid you’re the only guest at the moment so you might find it a bit quiet, but once you’ve got to know everyone you’ll feel right at home.’

  ‘Great, thank you,’ Jules mumbled, her gaze falling to a tall sideboard opposite the doorway. On the top, above a stack of decrepit looking board games and a shelf of nameless red books, sat a row of multi-coloured bottles which seemed to beckon Jules like a hot bath on a cold night.

  ‘Help yourself,’ Mrs Beckwith nodded, following Jules’ gaze. ‘From what Terri told me, you’ll need a drink,’ she added with a chuckle.

  ‘Thanks,’ Jules replied with a weak smile.

  Mrs Beckwith shuffled on to a room towards the back of the house, bumping into a side table as she moved and scattering the ornamental animals resting on it. Lucky they were brass and not porcelain, Jules thought, wondering if Mrs Beckwith’s glasses needed to be a few inches thicker.

  ‘And here’s the dining room,’ she began, leading Jules into an equally dated room with a long, dark wood table, complete with a lace tablecloth.

  ‘I do breakfast anytime you like, from toast to the full works. I can also do evening meals. Just let me know in each morning if you’ll be wanting something,’ the old lady explained, knocking into a chair and letting out a loud trumpet fart. ‘Oops, do excuse me, my dear. It’s this high-fibre diet those pesky doctors have got me on,” Mrs Beckwith chuckled.

  Jules stifled a smirk. ‘That’s very kind of you Mrs Beckwith. Err, shall we say coffee and toast at eight tomorrow and go from there?’

  ‘That’s fine dear.’

  It took another ten minutes before Mrs Beckwith showed Jules to her room. The old lady talking as slowly as she moved, bumping into several more tables before she made it to the narrow staircase. Each knock unleashing more noises from the landlady and more detail than Jules cared to know about high-fibre diets.

  ‘I’ve got three rooms I hire out, all the same apart from the colours. I’ve put you in the yellow room; it’s the nicer one,’ the old lady smiled at Jules, showing off a row of gleaming white dentures.

  As Jules stepped through the open doorway she fought the urge to laugh at the room before her. Compared to the rest of the house it was almost completely bare. A single bed rested against the only radiator, just below a single-paned window l
ooking out into the darkness. A mustard yellow bed cover and matching curtains provided the only colour to the room.

  Apart from the bed, a thin wardrobe and a chest of draws were the only other pieces of furniture in the room; both tucked against the wall opposite a beautiful mahogany fireplace, which looked like it belonged in a national heritage home rather than Mrs Beckwith’s strange guesthouse.

  ‘Nice and spacious’ the old lady said from the doorway, as if the room needed the extra description. ‘A little plain I know, but you wouldn’t believe the amount of trouble I’ve had with hikers stealing my precious animals. In the end I had to move them all downstairs. Never trust a hiker, that’s my motto.’

  Jules nodded, unable to think of an appropriate response.

  Mrs Beckwith continued regardless: ‘The bathroom is just at the end of the hallway. As I said, you’ve got it all to yourself so feel free to leave any toiletries in there. And on that note, I will leave you to it. Just knock on the kitchen door if you need anything. Sleep well dear.’

  ‘Thank you Mrs Beckwith,’ she replied lifting her hand in a small wave as she closed the heavy wooden door.

  It could be worse, Jules told herself, dropping onto the lumpy bed and shrugging off her jacket; but as her hands felt for the newspaper still hiding in her pocket she struggled to see how.

  Two

  The hamlet of Cottinghale is home to somewhere between eighty-five and two hundred residents, depending on the day of the week, the person counting and the number of ales they may have consumed in Cottinghale’s main and only focal point – The Nag public house. No one is sure of the exact figure, only that the tiny collection of homes hidden by a dip in the rolling English countryside, midway between Cheltenham and Oxford, once served as the servant quarters to the vast lands of the Cottinghale estate.

  Luckily for the residents of Cottinghale, when the estate burnt down in 1861, the valley that had kept their existence perfectly hidden from the passing world also protected the old staff houses from the crosswinds of the fire and the destruction of their entire community.