by Talli Roland
‘But Simpson, don’t you think once people see me without the costume’ – Willow gestured toward her brown hair and skinny frame – ‘they’ll know there’s no way I could be the next Marilyn? It might be safest to stick to the YouTube video.’
Simpson was shaking his head. ‘I don’t think so, dear. If people are capable of believing that image is a ghost communicating from the great beyond, they’re certainly not going to question you. It would mean a lot to me – and the village – if you could do this one interview.’
Willow met his pleading eyes. ‘Fine. I guess I can.’ She still couldn’t believe people’s vision would be so impaired they’d think she was Marilyn Monroe, but if Simpson thought it would help . . . well, why not.
Simpson’s face lit up. ‘Brilliant. He’s right outside.’
What? She had to do the interview now? For a second, she wanted to throttle Simpson for not giving her more time to mentally prepare. Sure, it was just questions and answers, but she didn’t even like having her photo taken, let alone going on television. Given a choice, she’d prefer to remain as inconspicuous as possible. That was why she loved arranging flowers – she could stay in the background and let her creations speak for themselves.
‘How did you know I’d say yes?’ Bit of a risk, asking a reporter to hang around and wait outside without even knowing her answer.
‘You wouldn’t let us down,’ Simpson said. ‘You’re a good girl, and I knew we could count on you.’
Willow gulped. ‘Of course.’ God, she’d better not mess this up.
‘And maybe you could put on a bit of make-up?’ Simpson continued in a delicate tone, as if he might hurt her feelings. ‘To put the best face forward for the villagers? And perhaps without the apron . . .’
‘I was just cooking bacon,’ Willow protested. Oh, the bacon! She rushed into the kitchen, looking with disgust at the charred meat. Tipping it into the bin, she craned her neck to see her reflection in the kitchen window, recoiling at her lank locks and tired eyes. Maybe she should at least comb her hair and cover up those bags. Looking like this, she’d do the village more harm than good.
Willow tiptoed upstairs and eased past her father’s closed bedroom door, his snores rumbling through the flimsy wood. Now, where on earth was her make-up? Opening a few drawers at random, she tried to remember where she’d last stowed it. Paula had given her a full set of MAC stuff last Christmas, but Willow hadn’t even opened the gift box.
Ah! There it was – shoved into the drawer with all that lingerie she hadn’t used since Alex. She pushed aside the lacy confections and drew out the make-up, then hastily patted foundation under her eyes, jabbed mascara onto her lashes and slicked sticky bright gloss onto her full lips.
God. She looked like an over-made-up circus clown, but at least it was an improvement on zombie. Twisting her hair into a loose chignon, she opened the closet, selected a fresh white T-shirt and pulled it on.
‘Ready!’ Willow called out quietly, descending the stairs. Simpson nodded approvingly and opened the front door.
‘Hello again.’ Matthias Clodington pushed his way through the narrow doorframe and into the cramped room. Together with his camera and lights, he took up almost half the space. ‘All set? Just have a seat there’ – he pointed at the sofa – ‘and I’ll ask you a few questions. Look at me, not the camera. Easy.’
Willow sat, shifting uncomfortably in the sudden glare of the lights. ‘Okay.’ Already her heart was beating faster and her palms were slick with sweat. She glanced over at Simpson, who smiled encouragingly.
‘So, Willow,’ Matthias began. ‘Can you tell our viewers a little bit about yourself?’
What was there to say, really? ‘Well, I’m twenty-five.’
‘The same age Marilyn was when she started to make her Hollywood breakthrough!’ Matthias interjected excitedly.
‘Yes, I guess. And, um . . .’ Willow racked her brain for something interesting to tell people. I like flowers? This was going to be the dullest interview ever.
‘Is that your natural hair colour?’ Matthias asked.
Willow lifted a finger to her chestnut tresses. ‘It is, yes.’
‘Marilyn was a brunette!’ Matthias said. He paused to let the significance sink in. ‘And are you married?’
‘No. I’m single.’ Willow felt her cheeks heat up, imagining Alex’s pity if he saw this – with Claire by his side, on that comfy leather sofa Willow had loved to curl up on.
‘Marilyn wasn’t married either, when she was your age.’ Matthias seemed determined to point out any small thread of similarity, no matter how tenuous. ‘And Willow, I have to say, you seem nervous. Do you suffer from stage fright, by any chance?’
‘I can’t say I like to perform or have the spotlight on me.’ Willow shuddered just thinking about people watching her onstage. This interview was bad enough.
‘Well, that is remarkable,’ Matthias breathed reverentially. ‘Marilyn did, too!’
Marilyn suffered from stage fright? Willow stared at Matthias, wondering if he was serious. Surely he was just putting it on for the benefit of his audience. How could someone terrified of the spotlight spend their whole life in it?
‘I can see now why Marilyn chose you.’ Matthias nodded solemnly. ‘The similarities between the two of you are striking.’
‘Er . . .’ What could Willow say to that – besides how ridiculous it was that she, a skinny brunette from the back of nowhere in England, would be chosen by Marilyn.
As crazy as it seemed, could Simpson be right? If people believed that image was a ghost, would they believe anything?
Looked like she was about to find out.
*
Take that, you disgusting rodent,’ Jay Bellamy growled, pouring a fresh handful of sawdust over the world’s smelliest guinea pig. He smirked as the animal tried in vain to shake off the flakes. Bunny – just why his mother named her guinea pig Bunny was beyond him; if she wanted a rabbit she should have got one – was the bane of his already horrifying existence. Moving back to the gritty Glasgow suburbs to live with Mum was bad enough, but when you had to share a room with a stinking, fat guinea pig, too . . . ugh.
For the thousandth time, Jay cursed Jorgie Lane for bursting the bubble of his perfect Edinburgh life. She’d been as pudgy as Bunny when he’d first discovered her on a council estate. It was him who transformed her into a musical star, working tirelessly as her agent to get her gigs other aspiring artists only dreamed of.
And how did she repay him? By weaselling her way out of their agreement and telling everyone in the industry he’d signed her up to a dodgy contract! Sure, the terms might have been a little extreme – like him taking eighty per cent of her earnings – but he more than deserved it for all his hard work. After Jorgie’s tattling, though, no-one would touch him. He’d had to close his swanky office, give up his prime penthouse in the city centre, and declare bankruptcy.
‘Dinner’s ready!’ His mum’s voice floated up the stairs.
‘I’m not hungry,’ he grunted, knowing she wouldn’t hear him anyway – nothing seemed to penetrate the seventy-year-old’s consciousness. He’d have better success teaching Bunny to back flip.
Jay flopped onto the bed and turned to the state-of-the-art laptop he’d liberated from the office before the landlord repossessed it. Might as well check out YouTube. One day, his obsessive combing through video after video on the ‘most viewed’ list was sure to pay off. All he needed was one act with the potential to make it big, and he’d be back in the money. So far, though, all he’d come across were losers falling over or animals even more repulsive than Bunny.
Hang on, what was this? Marilyn Monroe in Belcherton, England – with over a hundred thousand views? Jay clicked the video thumbnail, impatiently tapping the keyboard as scenes from a lame village fair filled the screen. He stared at a skinny girl in a badly fitting dress and cheap-looking wig, with a filmy grey image of the real Marilyn’s face floating above her. What was so great a
bout this? Just another ugly woman trying to be something she wasn’t.
He was about to close the browser in disgust when he caught sight of the first comment underneath, proclaiming this no-hoper to be Marilyn reincarnate or some shit like that. And then . . . he scrolled down, eyes widening at the number of comments following suit. Christ, a few idiots even said they were planning a pilgrimage to Belcherton to see this woman.
Mind racing, he sat up on the narrow bed. This could be his chance to start again. Marilyn Monroe was a massive icon, and if even a quarter of her dedicated fans believed this woman in the video had any kind of connection, it was a fucking goldmine. All he had to do was get to Belcherton fast, before the YouTube thing peaked. If momentum was still going strong, Jay was certain he could capitalise on it and get the money rolling in. Sure, he’d have to convince the woman to sign with him first. But faced with the full power of his charm, no woman had ever been able to resist. Well, no woman but Davinia.
Jay angrily shoved back his sandy hair at the memory of that bitch. With her mile-long legs and high Slavic cheekbones, Davinia was model-perfect, exactly the kind of woman he needed by his side. Whatever she wanted, he’d given without a second thought. And what did she do? Laugh in his face and strut out when he couldn’t afford to buy her the diamond-studded tennis bracelet she’d commanded. Jay’s lips tightened. He’d show her, he thought, running a hand over his firm six-pack. He’d set up shop bigger and better than ever, and she’d regret walking out.
There was still the minor detail of his bankruptcy, but no-one in Belcherton would have heard of that. Just to be on the safe side, though, he’d tell this Marilyn girl he was already a big-name London agent. And unlike bloody Jorgie, this time he’d make the contract one-hundred and ten per cent fail proof – one she’d never be able to get out of.
A slow smile crossed Jay’s handsome face and his dark eyes gleamed. Rooting in the flimsy wardrobe, he uncovered a dusty leather Gucci suitcase and filled it with suits he hadn’t worn since closing up the office in disgrace.
It was time to reclaim his life.
*
‘Dad!’ Willow called out later that night. ‘Are you coming to the pub with us? It’s almost time for my interview.’
The Watts’s ancient telly didn’t pick up the US-based CelebrityCrush channel which, according to Paula, was only available on satellite. Willow had never heard of the channel before meeting Matthias, but Paula said it was one of her regulars. She’d always been fascinated by pop culture and religiously watched anything to do with the entertainment industry. When they were young, Paula’s number one ambition had been to leave Belcherton and secure a role as a presenter on music video channel MuseSick.
Willow shook her head at the irony of how their lives had turned out. Paula, who was always bleating on about ditching ‘bloody Belcherton’, had ended up opening RockIt hair salon and settling here. Willow – who would have been content taking a floristry course at nearby Cheltenham – had been on her way to building a successful life in London. Tears filled her eyes as she remembered how Mum had urged her to apply to a prestigious flower school in Knightsbridge, saying it would be good for Willow to see life outside the village. Thinking she’d never in a million years get in, Willow had filled out the application. Then, to her surprise, she’d been accepted.
Not wanting to let down Mum, Willow had swallowed her fears, closed her eyes and jumped, and she’d never been happier. The school introduced her to exotic flowers she’d never dreamed existed, and Willow fell head over heels in love with orchids – Disas, to be precise. There was something about the delicate blossom at the end of the long, narrow stem that made her melt with appreciation.
After graduating from the year-long course at the top of her class, Willow had been offered a job at Liberty’s, where she became known for introducing customers to Disas – so much so that colleagues and customers used to call her ‘Disa’. For the longest time, Alex had thought her name was Disa! A pang of nostalgia flashed through her, but Willow pushed it away. Her father needed her, and Willow had made the right choice coming home. If she hadn’t, who knew what state Dad would be in now? Not to mention the shop.
Paula held out her glass for more wine. ‘Top me up before we go, hey?’ She sighed, stretching out her jelly-shoe-clad feet. ‘It was manic in the salon today. All anyone can talk about is your video, Wills – and how we need to keep our mouths shut about that image Simpson put in. We reckon lots of visitors will come here from everywhere, which means a run on more perms and bloody blue rinses. I tried to convince Mrs Greene to go for purple highlights, but no joy.’
Willow smiled, trying to picture prim Mrs Greene with purple hair. And lots of visitors, from all over? Simpson would be thrilled if that happened. She glanced at her watch. Five to eight. ‘We’d better get going.’
Paula wrinkled her nose. ‘Okay, I guess I’ll have to handle the pub sober.’ Belcherton’s only pub was a dirty and dingy affair, and strands from Lordy’s flowing grey hair always seemed to make their way into every drink and foodstuff.
‘Dad!’ Willow yelled again. Where was he? ‘Just a sec,’ she said to Paula as she turned and headed upstairs. The door to his bedroom was open and snores wafted out. He had tired himself out on the field the other day, Willow thought, nibbling her nails as the familiar anxiety about his health hit her. Hopefully he’d remembered to take his blood pressure medication. She’d wake him up to check when she got home.
Back downstairs, Paula grabbed Willow’s hand, dragging her toward the door. ‘Come on! Only one minute!’
The two of them raced down the high street.
‘What’s going on here?’ Paula asked as they spotted a group of strangers outside the pub. ‘Have the health authorities finally come to sample Lordy’s finest hairballs?’
‘Do inspectors drink on the job?’ Willow whispered as the strangers raised their pint glasses. Whoever they were, at least they were friendly.
‘Whoa!’ Willow’s mouth dropped open as she entered the pub. Every seat was taken and it was actually buzzing, an adjective that had never been applied to Lordy’s pub before – unless you counted that wasp infestation. Looking around, Willow recognised a few faces from the village, but the crowd was mostly strangers.
‘See?’ Paula whispered. ‘Told you fans would come. Just give it a bit more time and the village will be absolutely crawling.’
‘Here she is!’ Lordy’s booming voice cut through the noise of the crowd. ‘The woman everyone wants to see: Willow Watts, Belcherton’s very own Marilyn Monroe!’
Willow gulped as what felt like a million eyes swung her way. All these people were here to see her? They were in for a disappointment. Dressed in a moth-eaten tee and baggy jeans, she was as far from resembling Marilyn as Lordy was from Hugh Grant. Willow waited for a disapproving boo, but instead flashes went off as people shoved mobiles in her face.
‘It’s her! It’s the new Marilyn!’ The buzz grew to a fever pitch, and one burly man shoved a tatty bar napkin at her. ‘Can you sign this, please?’
Willow stared at the stained napkin, then turned to meet Paula’s raised eyebrows. Somehow, these people did seem to think she was Marilyn. Maybe they’d had too much to drink?
‘Er, sorry,’ she muttered to the man as she pushed past him toward Lordy at the bar. ‘Would you mind putting on the CelebrityCrush channel, just for five minutes?’ Willow yelled over the din of the crowd. ‘The reporter filmed me this morning and it’s airing tonight.’
Lordy laughed, a finger coming up to twirl his lengthy handlebar moustache. ‘Don’t I know it. I must have been asked a hundred times tonight if the pub’s planning to show the interview. Can’t fathom how people believe all that rubbish about ghosts, but hey, if they’re buying it, who am I to tell them different?’ He came out from behind the bar and manoeuvred Willow and Paula in front of the television, then shoved drinks into their hands.
‘I don’t mind giving thanks where it’s due,’ Lordy sai
d in Willow’s ear. ‘I’ve already pulled in tonight what I usually earn in a month.’
In one night, Lordy had equalled a month’s takings? Willow fervently prayed some of the extra visitors would make their way into her father’s shop, too. If a minor miracle occurred and they trebled their sales, they might be able to pull off next month’s repayment. That would buy her some more time, at least. Surreptitiously picking one of Lordy’s hairs out of her wine, she stared at the telly where Matthias’s face could now be seen. Instantly, the crowd grew so quiet Willow was sure she could hear Krusty’s disgruntled caws from the Watts’s back garden.
‘Good evening,’ Matthias said in his deep voice. ‘I’m in Belcherton, England, standing in front of the residence of Willow Watts.’
The report jumped to the infamous YouTube video, and Willow dropped her head, wanting to crawl under the table as she took in her silly dancing image again. She stiffened, expecting a few guffaws from the people around her, but their eyes were trained on the television as if it held the secret to winning the National Lottery.
The camera cut to inside the house and Willow jerked at the sight of herself perched on the aging sofa in the lounge. God, with her hair swept up like that and the extra make-up, it didn’t even look like her. She glanced at Paula to gauge her reaction, but Paula was just staring at the television along with the rest of the crowd.
‘So, Willow,’ Matthias’s voice came from off-screen. ‘Can you tell our viewers a little about yourself?’
Willow winced, knowing what was coming next: a big fat nothing.
‘Well, I’m twenty-five . . .’ her on-screen image said lamely.
‘The same age Marilyn was when she started to make her Hollywood breakthrough,’ Matthias’s enthusiastic voice boomed off-camera.
