by Talli Roland
‘Oooooh!’ The hushed crowd let out a collective squeal, and Willow swung her head around in disbelief. They couldn’t be buying all that B.S. Matthias was shovelling, could they? But with every question and answer affirming the Marilyn reincarnation, a low hum grew louder and louder until Willow could barely hear the television.
Looking up at the crowd of strangers, Willow had the unsettled feeling they were closing in on her; hundreds of eyes shining down with zombie-like adoration. The way they were staring so intently – as if she was the answer to all their crazed Marilyn prayers – made her tremble.
The camera flashed back to Matthias outside Willow’s house. ‘And there you have it. Marilyn hasn’t left us. She lives on, in Willow Watts, right here in Belcherton. This is Matthias Clodington, UK Correspondent for the CelebrityCrush Channel. Tune in tomorrow when we talk to Willow’s best friend Paula Rush to learn more about the woman Marilyn chose to make her own.’
Willow turned to Paula. ‘What? You never told me you were doing that.’
‘That’s because I never actually agreed to an interview.’ Paula slapped her empty wine glass down on the bar. ‘It was unbelievably busy, and he came by right in the middle of two perms and asked if I’d be free tomorrow. I thought he meant for his hair, you know? He’d look great with a Mohican. Anyway, he’s pencilled in for half-one, I think.’
‘Honestly, I can’t believe a reporter is so interested in this,’ Willow said. ‘Surely there must be more important news to cover.’
‘Are you kidding? People love this kind of stuff, and it gives the media something fun to talk about, besides murder and crime. Just wait, I bet your video will be on the BBC soon!’ Paula grabbed Willow’s arm. ‘Now, come on, let’s jet. If I’m going to look fresh for the TV tomorrow, I need to sleep off the effects of Lordy’s paint-stripping wine.’
The hubbub of the pub grew even louder as Willow stood. Popping flashes nearly blinded her and she stumbled after Paula, who was bulldozing their way through the crowd.
‘This Marilyn thing is a pretty good gig, you know. You haven’t done anything, and already you’re a sensation!’ Paula’s tone held a touch of envy, something Willow hadn’t heard since she’d told her friend she was leaving for London way back when.
‘I guess,’ Willow said, careful to keep her discomfort to herself. She didn’t crave the limelight any more than Paula craved Muzak, but for reasons Willow couldn’t understand, people were coming to Belcherton – and still believing she was Marilyn once they saw her in the flesh. And if Paula was right, the numbers would only grow. If even just a few punters bought antiques from the shop . . . well, Willow could deal with a little attention if it might mean sorting things out herself.
‘I’ll see you tomorrow,’ she said, giving Paula a quick hug as they reached her door. ‘Let me know how the interview goes. Night.’
‘Night night, Marilyn!’ Paula shouted over her shoulder as she took off down the street.
CHAPTER FOUR
ACROSS THE OCEAN IN Carter, Georgia, Betts Johnson plonked down in the La-Z-Boy chair and took a small sip of her precious Dom Perignon, just like Marilyn would have done. Well, maybe not in a La-Z-Boy, but still. The chair was one comfort Betts wouldn’t give up, not even for her idol. And who knew? If Marilyn had lived to the ripe old age of fifty-nine, she might be sprawled out watching TV, too. Just like Betts, Marilyn had been divorced (albeit a few more times), so she was sure to understand the comfort of a La-Z-Boy when there was no-one else to keep you cosy.
‘And now for today’s Isn’t Life Funny feature,’ the local news anchor said, smiling toothily into the camera.
Oh, goodie. Betts leaned toward the television. She loved this bit.
‘Across the pond in jolly old England, the reincarnation of one of America’s greatest icons has been found!’
‘What?’ Betts gasped, mouth falling open as Marilyn’s image filled the screen. But wait – that wasn’t Marilyn. It was some girl in a dress, on a video. The camera cut to a collection of ragtag buildings in what looked like the middle of nowhere.
Betts turned up the sound. ‘A YouTube video featuring a British woman by the name of Willow Watts has now received over a quarter of a million hits, when one viewer claimed an image of Marilyn Monroe in the frame was actually the film star’s ghost.’
Betts loved closer. Oh my goodness. Yes, there it was! Without a doubt, Marilyn’s own lovely face in the video. Betts pressed shaking hands against her beating heart.
‘One commenter claimed Marilyn had returned to endorse her new representative. Now Marilyn fans have begun flocking to Belcherton, England, to see the woman and pay homage to the memory of the great icon,’ the announcer went on. ‘And that’s it for this edition of Isn’t Life Funny.’
Betts scrambled to her feet, quivering with excitement. Why hadn’t she heard of this? The past few days helping her son move apartments had been so manic that she hadn’t logged onto the Moms for Marilyn newsgroup. Now, she slid her feet into fluffy slippers and padded over to the computer in her Marilyn room. Every inch was covered in photos of the blonde goddess, documenting the transformation from Norma Jean to the woman who would live forever in the hearts of dedicated fans like Betts.
As fast as she could, Betts signed into the newsgroup and scanned message after message, all bursting with excitement at the recent development. One had a link to the YouTube video, and Betts clicked on it.
She twisted a curl impatiently as the video showed a field with booths selling jam, cookies and strange-looking beverages. A tall, thin woman wearing a white dress capered about in the rain, and Betts’s heart dropped. Even with the platinum wig, this person didn’t resemble the great Marilyn in the least. Maybe that image was a trick of the eyes?
But wait – there it was! Betts sat back on the folding chair, awe sweeping over her as she stared at the ghostly image of Marilyn hovering above the woman. Who was Betts to argue with her heroine? Marilyn had come back, and for some reason, she’d chosen Willow Watts. Gosh, what an honour. For a split second, Betts drifted into a daydream where Marilyn chose her to return into. Imagine, being a star – a chance to escape the daily drudgery of ironing, washing, cooking supper for her grown kids when they just happened to drop by every evening at six . . .
Get real, Betts, she told herself. Marilyn wouldn’t choose a fat slob like her to come back to. Who would want her life? Betts slumped over as she thought of the endless march of the days ahead. A vacation would be nice right about now.
Betts tapped her foot against the pink shag carpet, mind racing. A vacation would be nice! Gord’s alimony was just sitting there, and if memory served, the passport she’d got when she’d overheard the kids discussing sending her to Jamaica for her birthday a few years back was still valid. Her heart sank as she remembered how, instead of jetting off to the beach, she’d ended up at the Jamaica Mon Wave Pool in town.
This time she’d do it right. And what better place to vacation than where her icon had just appeared? Ever since Betts’s divorce – well, to be fair, ever since she’d caught her bastard of an ex-husband boffing the IHOP waitress as he stuffed his mouth full of pancakes – Marilyn had been the one thing that got Betts through. The icon’s courage, determination and sheer ability to shine had been like a beacon during those dark days, when Gord had followed his belly and heart right out of her life. Sure, the kids always rolled their eyes when she talked about her idol, but what did they know? They were too busy living their own lives to pay much attention to dear old mum – except when they wanted something, which seemed to be every ten seconds. Well, they didn’t need to know why she was going to England. All they needed to know was Mom was finally off-duty.
Excitement surging through her, Betts leaped off the chair. Was she actually going to do this? Gord hadn’t been keen on travelling and whenever they’d taken a vacation, they’d driven to Orlando. For goodness’ sake, she’d never even been on a plane! A thrill of fear and nerves hit as she thought about
the long journey ahead, but she steeled herself against it. Gord had always said she was a wuss. Now was the time to prove him wrong.
Betts shuffled into the bedroom and unearthed an old suitcase from the corner of the closet, then looked with disgust at her clothes: jeans, jeans, and more jeans, along with some foul floral blouses her daughter had bought her, seeing as how ‘flowers were appropriate attire for older divorcées’. Fifty-nine years old, and she was divorced – and alone. That was something Betts had never expected.
There was no time to go shopping now. She stuffed a few of her better-fitting jeans and blouses into a case, then sat back on the bed. What else to bring? What was the weather like in England, anyway?
Betts smiled, her heart beating fast. She’d find out soon enough.
*
Jay cursed as he dragged a scuffed Gucci case off the National Express bus and headed toward what he hoped was Belcherton’s town centre – a clutch of squat, ugly brown buildings that was a blight on the rolling hills of the Cotswolds. The journey from Glasgow had been shocking and even though it was only nine a.m., Jay was in desperate need of a drink.
He dug in the pocket of his soiled suit on the off-chance a few extra pound coins had miraculously appeared. He’d been forced to plunder Bunny’s ‘special treat’ fund, vibrating with anger when he noticed that stinky animal had over three hundred pounds to its credit while he’d been living on Mum’s handouts. This mission would be so much easier if Mum had handed over her credit card, but she’d just shaken her head with a disgusted expression when he’d asked, and Jay knew better than to push when the old bag looked like that.
After the bus fare, only two hundred and fifty pounds remained, and experience told him lifting this project off the ground would cost at least that much. He’d use his charms to get the woman on side; make the broad over to professional standards . . . then he’d work her hard to recoup his investment – and more. The less he paid out, the faster the return. And the faster he could shove it all back in Davinia’s perfect face.
Tugging his case over the cracked cobblestones, Jay noted with surprise how busy the little town was in the early morning. The one tiny off-licence on the high street was buzzing. As he pushed his way inside, Jay was shocked to hear almost every language but English. Who would have thought Belcherton was such a cosmopolitan place?
Jay paused as he reached for a can of his favourite lager. Hold on – they couldn’t all be here to see the new Marilyn, could they? Sure, a few idiots had said in the comments they were planning to visit the village, but not even Jay had held out hope so many people could be so dim. It was one thing to think an image was Marilyn’s ghost, but another to actually travel half-way around the world.
Glee grew in Jay’s gut and pound signs flashed in his head as he dodged between punters toward the man at the counter. Maybe he’d be able to set up shop in London even sooner than planned. His lips curved in a smile as he pictured ringing up Davinia and inviting her over to his new premises for a bottle of Cristal . . . then guzzling the whole thing himself and shoving her out the door.
‘I’m looking for Willow Watts,’ he said after elbowing aside the stunned tourists.
The shopkeeper rolled his eyes. ‘Join the club, mate. No information without purchase,’ he added.
Hadn’t taken this lot long to get mercenary, Jay thought in grudging admiration as he banged the lager onto the scarred counter. ‘Here. Now tell me where she is.’
’One pound, twenty pence, please.’ The man waited until Jay handed over the change. ‘She’s just down the street a few doors. Watts’s Antiques.’
Jay didn’t even bother responding as he pushed between two Indian women and out onto the road. Hopefully no-one else had got to her first. If they had, though, it wouldn’t be too hard to get rid of them. He’d had plenty of practice with that back in Edinburgh.
Ah, here it was. Squinting through the dirty window, Jay spotted a few customers circling round the merchandise, then stopping to gape at a tall, skinny woman in the centre. Her Bunny-coloured brown hair was pulled back in a sloppy ponytail and there wasn’t an ounce of glamour about her. Surely that couldn’t be Willow? But if it was – and all these people were willing to believe she was Marilyn – just wait until she signed with him. The potential was enormous! Breathing in, Jay smoothed back his hair and curved his lips into a pleasant smile.
‘Willow Watts?’
‘Yes?’ She turned toward him. ‘Are you a reporter? I’m sorry, but it’s probably best if you have a word with Simpson, our village’s spokesperson.’
‘No, no.’ Jay laughed heartily, trying to put her at ease. He could already see Willow wasn’t used to much attention, and he knew from managing Jorgie that you had to go slowly or the talent might bolt. It had taken him almost three months of constant wooing and a string of endless compliments to get Jorgie on board but finally, she’d succumbed. Hopefully it wouldn’t take that long with this Willow. The YouTube momentum might be on the up now, but looking as she did – together with just standing around smiling inanely at people – guaranteed it wouldn’t be long before the appeal started to fade.
‘I’m not a reporter,’ he said in a calm, trust-me voice, smoothing out the Glasgow accent. ‘I’m an agent, from London.’
‘An agent?’ Willow asked, brow wrinkling. ‘An agent for what, exactly?’
Christ, what a dumb broad. ‘I represent actors, performers . . . and I’m hoping to represent you.’ Jay moved closer. ‘I know how hard it can be, dealing with the media and everything else when you’re not used to it. An agent can help you with all of that.’
‘Oh.’ Jay noted Willow’s flushed cheeks with satisfaction. Hadn’t taken long for his magic to start working, had it? ‘Well, thank you for coming all this way,’ she said, ‘but I’m sorry. I’m not really planning on dealing with the media.’
Idiot, Jay thought, careful to keep the understanding smile on his face. Didn’t she know how much she could milk this thing?
‘It’s not just media,’ he said smoothly. ‘There are lots of opportunities for you to develop new revenue streams. You could make a fortune.’ One word from her confirming she was the new Marilyn, and he could kick his plans into high gear. Already, he was picturing product endorsements, sponsorships from fan groups, maybe even a New Marilyn perfume . . . the possibilities for money making were endless, and he could see by the flash in her eyes that he’d hooked her. Even simple women like Willow couldn’t resist the lure of money.
‘Look, how about we have dinner and discuss everything then. Is there a nice place in town?’ He put a hand on her arm.
Willow laughed and her mousy exterior transformed into something almost beautiful. Yes, there was definitely material there to work with. ‘Not unless you consider Lordy’s fish and chip hairball combo fine dining,’ she said.
‘Maybe somewhere nearby?’ The nearer, the better. Hiring a car just to take her to dinner was out of the question – he’d need all Bunny’s cash to turn her into something passable. He held his breath as she considered his question.
‘There’s a pub in the next village,’ she said finally. ‘It’s a lovely ten-minute walk or so on the Cotswold Way.’
‘Brilliant. I’ll meet you back here at seven and we can head over together.’ He shot her a grin as he turned to go, pleased to see her cheeks were now crimson. Christ, women were so predictable. Talk about money, show a little interest, offer some food . . . of course, she hadn’t signed yet. But the way she was lapping up his attentions, she’d be his in no time.
Right, now where could he crash in this shitty excuse for a village? Lip curling, he surveyed the busy street, catching sight of some kind of tourist information centre located inside a bloody bus shelter. Even in Glasgow, things weren’t this bad – and that was saying something. Jumping the queue, Jay went straight up to an officious-looking man.
‘Hello,’ he said, remembering too late to keep the Scottish burr out of his voice. He coughed quickly to
cover it. ‘I’m Jay Bellamy, an agent from London. I’m in talks to represent Willow Watts, and I’m going to take every opportunity to put this village on the map.’
The man smiled. ‘Music to my ears, young man. If ever a village deserved to get its due, Belcherton is it.’
Jay tried to keep his expression neutral. Was the old guy senile? Must be, if he thought this dump was worth a look in.
‘I’m Simpson Dyer, head of Belcherton’s tourist board.’ Jay eyed the wrinkled hand with distaste and forced himself to take the papery palm. This man – and the village funds – could prove useful for organising events to ramp up Willow’s profile.
‘Nice to meet you, Simpson. Looking forward to getting to know you and Belcherton better. If Willow signs with me, that is. I do hope she does; it would be a shame to pass up an opportunity like this.’ Jay shook his head sorrowfully.
‘That it would, for both the village and her,’ Simpson said. ‘Poor girl has had a tough time recently.’
Jay’s ears perked up. Was there something he could capitalise on? The more he knew about his clients’ backgrounds, the better. ‘Tough time?’
‘Her mother died a while back, you see. Heart attack, quite sudden. Hit the family hard, and Willow dropped everything in London to stay with her father. She’s a good girl.’ Simpson’s head bobbed up and down.
A good girl, eh? Should be easy to get her on side, then – those types always did what they thought was best for people around them. Idiots. ‘I’m sure she is,’ Jay responded. ‘Look, I’m going to be visiting your lovely town for a few days, and I wondered if there was a place I could stay?’
‘Well, now, that’s a difficult question. We’re a small village without many accommodation options and everything in the vicinity is booked. Reckon you can find something in Cheltenham or Stow-on-the-Wold, but if you want to stay here . . .’ Simpson stroked his chin. ‘People are starting to set up tents in the East Field, down that way.’ He waved a hand in the air. ‘Do you have camping gear?’
