by Talli Roland
A few seconds later, the video came to an end and Simpson snapped the laptop closed.
‘So, what do you think?’
‘How many views does it have so far?’ Mrs Lemmon asked.
‘Well . . . two,’ Simpson said. ‘But I’ve only just put it up.’
‘Two!’ Mrs Greene tutted. ‘Did you know that cat video had over twenty-five million views? Surely Belcherton’s more worthy than a cat.’
‘Twenty-five million?’ Simpson’s eyes shone.
‘And don’t even get me started on Susan Boyle,’ Mrs Lemmon chimed in.
‘Well, I’ll see what I can do, ladies,’ Simpson said, looking crestfallen as he placed the laptop carefully in a leather satchel. ‘I’ll let you get down to business.’
Once Simpson had departed and the big church door thumped shut, Mrs Greene motioned for them to take a seat. ‘Now then, about next month’s charity drive . . .’
‘Time to call it a day, I do believe.’ Richard Watts slowly rose to his feet as the antique clock in the corner of the shop struck five p.m. Willow noted with chagrin how grey he looked – even his bushy white beard seemed lacklustre and his normally twinkling blue eyes dull. He’d definitely overdone it yesterday.
She shook her head, remembering how pale and unsteady he’d been after her mother had passed away two years ago. Ignoring his protests, she’d called Dr Taylor, who was always so busy attending to the heaps of complaints from Belcherton’s elderly residents, he was nearly impossible to track down. When the doctor got round to examining her dad, he exclaimed he’d never seen such high blood pressure, and if Mr Watts didn’t take it easy on the fatty foods and try to relax, he’d be a prime candidate for a stroke or a heart attack – or both. Willow’s father had shrugged dejectedly, saying at least he’d see his wife sooner rather than later, but Willow had been horrified. Losing Mum had been beyond heartbreaking, and Willow wasn’t about to lose her father, too. Although she’d loved her London life, nothing was more important than Dad. If he needed her back in Belcherton, that was where she’d be. London would always be there.
‘You go on,’ she said, glancing down at the paperwork in front of her. ‘I just want to finish this up.’
The shop plunged into silence as her father went through the adjoining door to their house, and Willow tried for the fifth time that afternoon to figure out how much they’d made so far this month. Her dad’s record-keeping was scatty at best, and she kept finding random receipts with illegible numbers for ‘the green cabinet’ or ‘bureau sold to bloke with red trousers’. Nibbling her nails, she tried to work it all out, panic rising as she thought of the future. How on earth would this debt ever get paid?
Three months ago, just as her father was starting to return to his old self, Willow had opened a letter proclaiming the business owed the government over ten thousand pounds in tax. With two late payment charges, the total amount was just shy of thirteen thousand pounds. She’d sat there, stunned. The amount might not seem like a lot by normal business standards, but her father’s shop was anything but normal. Watts’s Antiques had been successful years ago when her father first started it up, but as the years progressed, it had become more of a hobby than anything else. Sales trickled in slowly and profits were unpredictable, at best.
Dad would have a fit if he knew about the debt, she’d thought. And he’d just got his blood pressure back to normal! She’d have to keep this quiet; come up with a way to pay it off herself. Fingers trembling, Willow had rung the number on the letter and negotiated a payment plan allowing the shop to pay down the debt in monthly instalments of a thousand pounds. Thank God for those savings from her old florist job in London – money she’d put aside in hopes of having her own shop one day. But only a thousand pounds of that remained, and Willow had no idea how to make the payments once it was gone.
She’d made a few forays into bank loans, but with no income to speak of and the shop accounts in her father’s name, that idea was a no-go. Ten thousand pounds still remained on the debt, and it might as well be ten million for all the hope they had of paying it.
If worse came to worse, she’d have to tell Dad. But if she could just think of another way, well . . . anything was preferable to risking her father’s health again. No one, not even Paula, knew how dire things were. Talking about the sad state of her father’s affairs felt disloyal.
A sharp knock on the front door made Willow jump and she looked up to see Paula waving. Even from inside the shop, Willow could hear the gold bangles jangling.
‘Wills!’ Paula burst inside, her chest heaving up and down. ‘Oh my God! You’re not going to believe this.’ She collapsed into a chair, then shot up again. ‘Ouch. Stupid spring!’
‘What?’ Willow asked mildly, smiling as she took in Paula’s outfit: acid-washed leggings and a string vest of a Metallica T-shirt. ‘Has Bon Jovi got a new song out or something?’
‘No! Babes, you’re an internet sensation.’ Beads of sweat glistened on Paula’s brow.
‘What? Oh, you mean the YouTube video. Simpson showed it to me earlier. So you’ve seen it?’ Must have been a slow day at the salon if Paula was getting so excited over that silly thing.
‘Simpson came by with it this morning. Once I closed up, I thought I’d have another look to see if I could spot myself. And then I noticed it’s got, like, twenty thousand hits.’
‘What?’ Willow shook her head. Twenty thousand? Hadn’t Simpson just said that morning there’d been only two?
‘Yup. And that’s not all. Loads of people have written comments underneath it. Comments about you! They think you’re the next Marilyn Monroe.’
Willow stared, unable to take in her friend’s words. ‘What?’ she croaked finally.
Paula nodded. ‘Yes! Marilyn reincarnate, or something like that. You know how Simpson put Marilyn’s face floating over you in the bit where you’re singing? Well, someone wrote a comment saying it’s the ghost of Marilyn.’
‘The ghost of Marilyn?’ What the hell was Paula on about?
‘People are crazy, wanting to believe Elvis is still alive and all that.’ Paula shrugged. ‘Anyway, whoever wrote the comment must have spread the word with Marilyn Monroe fan clubs or something, because after that first one there are hundreds from people with names like MariLove and Marilyn4Eveh, all saying how this means Marilyn has bestowed her approval upon you, and shit like that.’ Paula laughed. ‘Reckon they’ve been smoking illegal substances.’
‘Hang on, I’m just going to grab the laptop. I’ve got to see this video again.’ Willow jumped up, Paula’s words swimming in her head. A heap of people thought she was the new Marilyn Monroe? Catching a glimpse of herself in the glass of an oil painting frame, she snorted. As if!
She went next door and navigated up the narrow staircase to her room under the eaves. Now, where had she put that laptop? Sadness curled through her stomach as she recalled the last time she had used it: to Google Alex. The search had brought up a photo of him attending a benefit organised by his London architects’ firm. His hand had been resting on the shoulder of a posh, blonde woman, who was looking up at him with laughing, loving eyes: Claire. Even though Willow and Alex had been broken up for almost a year and a half, it had hurt so much she’d slammed the top closed and kicked it away from her . . . ah, here it was, under the bed. She grabbed it and wiped dust off the top.
Back in the shop, Willow pushed aside a massive elephant tusk and plugged in the computer. ‘Right. Let me see this for myself.’ The pair listened to the rattle of the ancient machine – a dinosaur in laptop years – as it booted up. Then Willow Googled YouTube+Belcherton, hoping the video wouldn’t be too hard to find.
There it was, right above the link for the article in The Daily Post proclaiming Belcherton as Britain’s ugliest village. Holding her breath, Willow clicked the video link.
‘See!’ Paula crowed, pointing at the YouTube counter. ‘And oh my God, it’s up to forty thousand views now. You’re going viral.’
> Willow stared at the numbers. Forty thousand views! Clicking the ‘play’ button, the two of them watched the mead sequence, the cake, the jelly, the tea . . . Willow grimaced as she appeared with Marilyn’s image floating above her.
Paula tapped the screen. ‘Have a look at the comments.’
Willow scrolled down, eyes popping as she read the first comment underneath the video. MarilynAdoration69 wrote that if, after years of silence, Marilyn chose to appear while Willow was singing, it could only mean she was designating Willow as her new ‘planetary soul rep’. And comment after comment reaffirmed it! Maybe these people were smoking something dodgy.
‘I can’t believe it,’ Willow breathed, shaking her head as she continued through the trail of comments. The whole thing was just too surreal to take seriously.
‘It’s crazy, hey? In a billion years, I’d never have imagined a video of you going viral. You’re a superstar!’ Paula grinned. ‘We need to celebrate. Got any wine? And I’m starving. You wouldn’t have anything to snack on, would you?’ Paula was always hungry, a feeling Willow could barely recall. Most the time, her tummy rumbled with anxiety, not hunger.
‘Come on, then.’ Willow beckoned her friend through the adjoining door. ‘I’m just about to cook for Dad. Why don’t you join us?’
‘Spag bol?’ Paula raised an eyebrow hopefully. It was the only thing Willow didn’t burn.
‘Sure, if you want.’ She’d have to run to the off-licence for some spaghetti, but the dish wouldn’t take long to knock up.
‘You’re the fabbest friend ever,’ Paula said, throwing herself onto the sofa. ‘Just remember me when you’re famous.’
Willow rolled her eyes as she went into the kitchen to check for mince. ‘Famous. Yeah, right.’
Early the next morning, Willow opened the front door of the antique shop and settled into the desk. Forcing herself to look at the account books again, she prayed for divine inspiration. There had to be some way to get the money together without talking to her father – she couldn’t bear to put more strain on Dad. Willow’s ragged nails crept up to her mouth and she bit at one anxiously. What was she going to do?
The tinkle of the door bell made her glance up. A large man about her age with shockingly thick ginger hair approached. ‘Hello. I’m looking for a woman by the name of Willow Watts,’ he said in a deep voice.
‘Yes, that’s me,’ Willow answered slowly, wondering who this man was. Strangers in the village were rare – and even rarer that they asked for her. Could he be Mrs Greene’s mentally unstable grandson? The elderly woman was always trying to set them up on a blind date, claiming ‘the drugs have stabilised him now’. But Willow seemed to recall Mrs Greene said the grandson was undergoing shock therapy these days.
Confusion crossed the man’s face before he rearranged the pleasant features back into a friendly, open expression. ‘You’re Willow Watts?’
‘Yes.’ Willow nodded, wishing whoever this was, he’d get straight to it so she could return to the numbers. ‘Are you doing a survey? If you are, you might want to try Mrs Jones, just down the street. She loves answering questions.’ Ever since her husband died, it was pretty much the only company Mrs Jones got, and Willow made sure to send any visitors her way.
‘Are you the same Willow Watts in the video on YouTube? You know, the Marilyn Monroe one?’ He peered at her intently.
Oh God. Had she infringed on a copyright, or something? This man didn’t look like a lawyer, but he did have a whiff of drama about him. ‘Yes, that’s me. I had a wig on at the time,’ she added, clocking his incredulous expression. ‘And about twenty extra pounds of dress.’
Krusty let out a random screech next door and the man jumped.
‘Sorry about that,’ Willow said, then told herself not to apologise. Paula was always saying she’d apologise to a serial murderer for not being an easier victim. ‘So what did you want to see me about? And I’m sorry’ – don’t apologise! – ‘I didn’t catch your name?’
‘I’m Matthias Clodington, a reporter from CelebrityCrush,’ he said, taking out a miniscule voice recorder. ‘I’m here to talk to you about that video.’
Willow let out her breath with relief that she wasn’t about to get yanked into court, and that the reporter was only here for the YouTube video. Simpson would be thrilled the media was paying attention. ‘You’ll need to talk to Simpson Dyer,’ she said.
‘Oh, you’ve appointed a spokesperson already?’ Matthias gave her an admiring look. ‘Well, if you could just pass along the number for your representative . . .’
‘No, no,’ Willow said quickly. ‘Simpson can fill you in on the village history. You know, all the relevant facts.’
‘Sure, I’ll need that for background info. But it’s you I really want to talk to. Our viewers can’t wait to hear the new Marilyn speak.’
Willow’s heart started thumping. ‘The new Marilyn?’ No way was she going to start playing along with that nonsense. ‘I think you’d better find Simpson.’ He could clear up this whole thing and get in a plug for Belcherton, too.
Matthias’s face fell. ‘Fine.’ He thrust a card at her. ‘If you change your mind and you want to chat, I’ll be around for the next few days. Just call, and I can be with you in minutes.’
‘Thank you for coming,’ Willow responded, a smile nailed onto her face. This YouTube thing was crazy, but if Simpson managed to get some positive press for the village, then good for him. Sighing, Willow turned back to the columns of numbers in front of her.
CHAPTER THREE
THE SIZZLE OF HER FATHER’S low-fat bacon filled the small kitchen as Willow placed the strips in a hot frying pan. Without his morning meat treat, her father was like a grizzly bear with a toothache. Willow had told him countless times how bad the salty pork was for his heart, but he never listened. She’d resorted to trimming off as much fat as she could and using one of those foul spray oils.
As the bacon crackled, Willow attacked the roasting pot soaking in the sink from last night’s dinner. Paula had dropped by again, trading jokes with Dad about how Willow was now Belcherton’s most famous resident. The council might even erect a blue plaque, they’d laughed. According to her friend, the YouTube video was up to almost a hundred thousand views – apparently, it was ‘trending’, whatever that meant. The whole thing was so bizarre, Willow couldn’t begin to grasp people actually believed she was the film icon. There’s naught as queer as folk, her dad had said, and she couldn’t agree more.
A sharp knock on the door interrupted her thoughts. Wiping her hands on the grease-splattered apron, she hurried through to the lounge.
‘Oh, hello!’ she said in surprise. Simpson stood in the doorway, dressed in his usual three-piece suit.
‘Good morning. Can I come in? I have an official matter to discuss with you.’
‘Of course.’ Willow beckoned him inside and onto the sofa. ‘Have a seat.’
Simpson sniffed the air. ‘Is that bacon? Smells delicious.’
‘Would you like some?’ Willow asked, trying not to think about the stack of paperwork waiting next door.
‘Just a spot of tea would suffice.’ Simpson crossed his legs and leaned back. ‘Thank you.’
Willow nodded. ‘Sure.’ She hurried into the kitchen and turned on the kettle.
‘Tea coming up,’ she said, settling into a chair across from Simpson. ‘So what can I do for you?’ Please, not the committee meeting report. Mrs Greene had asked her to type it up, but she hadn’t had a chance yet.
‘I wanted to talk to you about the YouTube video,’ Simpson said, his eyes locked onto hers.
‘Oh. Okay. Was the reporter disappointed when you told him that image wasn’t really a ghost?’ Willow couldn’t help shaking her head again at the ridiculousness of it all.
‘Well.’ Simpson drummed his fingers on the bureau beside him. ‘Actually, that’s what I wanted to discuss. You see, I didn’t exactly explain what that image was.’
Oh God. So people still
thought it was a ghost? That explained the ‘trending’, anyway. ‘Why not?’
‘Since that video went live, we’ve already doubled the number of visitors to the information centre over last year.’
‘Wouldn’t take much,’ Willow said wryly. Given that they’d only had two ‘tourists’ last year – a Greek couple who’d made a wrong turn – that would make a grand total of four people.
‘I know, but still.’ Simpson’s eyes shone. ‘There are plenty of comments on YouTube from people saying they’re going to make a pilgrimage here. The popularity of this video is a wonderful opportunity for the village to finally host more tourists.’
Willow turned his words over in her head, trying not to let her scepticism show. It was one thing for people to write on a YouTube site they were planning to come, and another for it actually to happen. She couldn’t see the village swamped with fans like Simpson anticipated.
‘And, well.’ Simpson dropped his head. ‘The council told me last month if I didn’t increase Belcherton’s tourist trade, they’d cut my position.’ He glanced up at her. ‘Just don’t tell any media what that image really is. Please?’
How could she refuse that? She didn’t want poor Simpson to lose his job. Fingers crossed he was right about people coming.
‘Okay,’ Willow said, laying a hand on Simpson’s arm. ‘I won’t say anything.’
‘Thank you, my dear.’ Simpson sighed, his face relaxing. ‘There’s just one more thing.’
‘What?’ Willow asked, instantly suspicious. She should have known it wouldn’t be as easy as keeping quiet.
‘That reporter did say he’d have a stronger story if you spoke to him.’ Simpson threw her a hopeful look. ‘His viewers want to hear you speak. You won’t have to do much; just answer a few questions. And it would help more people hear about the village.’
