Tom’s jaw slackened and his hand paused on its way into the crisp bag. ‘That’s our Molly,’ he said excitedly. ‘I’m sure of it.’
Just then, his mobile phone went. Stuffing the crisps onto Flora’s lap he searched the back seat, which had long been lost under a layer of clothes that needed to find a launderette.
‘Hello. Tom Mackenzie,’ he said after finding the phone under an old sock.
‘Tom, you old devil!’
‘Nick!’
‘Where the hell are you?’
‘Derbyshire.’
‘Well, get your arse over to Manchester. I’ve just had Susanna Lewis’s personal assistant on the phone. She’s been following your story and wants to do a piece with you for her show.’
‘Susanna Lewis?’ Tom said, a fleeting image of the buxom blonde filling his brain.
‘You jammy git, you!’
‘Blimey!’
‘But don’t go getting too excited. You’ll be sandwiched between a couple of other guests and a phone-in, but this will really get your name out there.’
Tom could hardly speak for the shock, Susanna Lewis’s cleavage blocking any train of coherent thought.
‘You still there, mate?’
‘Y-yes!’
‘Just don’t forget to give Vive! a plug for us. This could secure you a permanent place on the old rag if you play your cards right.’
Carolyn had wondered why Marty had bought her flowers. They weren’t supermarket flowers either, but florist-bought, wrapped in red tissue paper with a swirl of silver ribbon.
‘I just wanted to say I’m sorry for the last few days,’ he’d whispered, kissing her neck delicately in a way that always set her skin on fire.
And then he’d dropped the bomb. ‘I told Dad we’d go round Granddad’s today. Dad wants a hand with some odd jobs round the place.’
Carolyn had stared at him. ‘Marty – this is supposed to be our holiday. I thought—’
‘It’s only for a few hours,’ Marty had interrupted quickly. ‘Then we can go out this evening – have a nice meal somewhere.’
Carolyn’s eyebrows had shot up in surprise. Marty never took her out to eat. ‘Just think of the amount of shopping you can get for the same price,’ he’d say.
‘Do you mean it?’ Carolyn had said.
‘Promise,’ he’d said. ‘It’ll be the real start of our holiday.’ With that, he’d kissed her neck in that oh-so-tender place again.
So two hours later she found herself at Old Bailey’s once again, cheap washing-up suds fizzing into nothing on her hands as she worked her way through a mountain range of dishes. As usual, Old Bailey hadn’t done any washing-up since her last visit. He’d simply let it fester in assorted heaps around the kitchen: a teetering tower of teacups here, a precarious pile of plates there. Carolyn wouldn’t have minded at all if she ever got a thank you, but thank yous were as rare as smiles in the Bailey household. The living room was one collective frown today and Carolyn hadn’t any desire to be a part of it. She’d hidden herself away in the kitchen for as long as she could, making friends with every dirty plate and cup; washing, drying and stacking in a vain attempt to make the time pass quickly.
She ambled through to the back bedroom and said hello to the family of photographs. She fluffed her hair up in the bathroom and was just about to tell Marty that she was going to walk to the local shops when she heard the strangest of cries. Momentarily forgetting her latest idea for an outrageously short haircut, she ran through to the living room.
‘Marty? What is it?’ she asked, seeing her husband on the edge of his seat, his eyes twice their normal size, a copy of Vive! clutched in his hands.
Carolyn felt a cold chill shake its way down her spine. Who had brought a copy of Vive! into the house again?
‘Marty? What is it?’ she asked, dreading to think what he’d found in the paper and hoping it had something to do with inflation or shares dropping rather than his sister’s antics. ‘What’s the matter?’
‘Molly!’ he said, pointing at the paper. ‘Molly!’
Chapter Twenty-One
Molly had the strangest feeling that someone was calling her name, which was really rather absurd because she was sat on the side of Mam Tor with nothing around her but grass and sky. She put it down to exhaustion because she’d had a busy day.
She couldn’t really say why she’d chosen to visit Derbyshire other than her love of open spaces, but it had certainly kept her occupied: widows, old people’s homes, a church raising funds for a new roof, and a fete raising money for a local animal rescue centre – it was all there ready for her and her money.
Although Molly had never had so much fun in her life, there was a little part of her that wanted to return home, especially now that The Bloom Room actually belonged to her. She missed the quietness of the flowers and the golden afternoons when Mrs Purdie would call. Molly smiled as she remembered her dear customer. One of the first things she’d done before leaving on her trip was to set up a weekly delivery of flowers to the old lady, arranged via her florist friend.
The thing that amazed Molly the most was the pleasure a little bit of money gave people. It was the grease that lubricated life but it could also so easily become the spanner in the works.
Molly wondered if, perhaps, she’d kept a little too much for herself. The last thing she wanted was to become a Bailey. It was strange to think of the money she’d put away just sitting earning interest: all that money accumulating without her having to lift a finger. She’d never earned any decent interest before: her barren bank accounts had never yielded more than a few pounds each year. Her life as an earner was a constant embarrassment. Her brother, who’d once helped her to fill in her tax return, had been flabbergasted.
‘Is this it?’ he’d said in horrified disbelief. ‘Are you absolutely sure that’s a whole year’s worth?’
Molly nodded. ‘Quite sure. My maths isn’t the best in the world but the figures are so small that they were simple enough to add up.’
‘How the hell are you managing?’
‘Bank loan.’
Marty’s eyebrows rose. To him, the word loan was up there with debt and bankruptcy as things that would never enter his own realm.
‘I know what you’re thinking, but things really are improving,’ Molly said. ‘Look – I’ve worked it out – I’m up by three per cent on last year.’
Marty didn’t look impressed. ‘This isn’t good, Moll. You need a serious injection of money into this place if you’re to survive.’
‘What do you suggest I do? Go out and apply for a lottery grant?’
Molly laughed as she remembered mentioning the word lottery but quickly stopped as she thought of how Marty would react if he ever found out. No, he mustn’t ever know, she thought. Briefly, she wondered if she’d made a mistake telling Carolyn but she’d trust her with her life. She wouldn’t let on. The only way Marty could possibly find out was if he read Vive!.
Molly frowned as she thought of the reporter again. Tom Mackenzie. Peeping Tom. He had the power to ruin everything for her and the thought made her blood boil. But the likelihood of Marty picking up a copy of Vive! was somewhat remote. He was a bit of a snob when it came to newspapers and there just weren’t enough financial pages in that rag to tempt him to buy it.
Molly flopped back on the grassy hill, her hand resting on Fizz, who was panting after their walk. Life was good, she thought and, at least for the moment, nobody knew where she was or what she was doing.
‘It’s not possible,’ Magnus said, a copy of Vive! shaking in his hands. ‘I was just talking to her – yesterday – she would have said something.’
‘She’s said nothing to me, that’s for sure,’ Marty said.
‘But how did she get so much money all of a sudden?’ Magnus asked, his face as dark as December.
Marty scowled at the report again. ‘It just says they think she’s a lottery winner.’
‘But how much?’
‘It doesn’t say, Dad!’ Marty said, becoming impatient. ‘Nobody seems to know.’
‘It’s that bloody Percy woman!’ Old Bailey intoned, his face turning puce as he grabbed the newspaper from his grandson and read it in disbelief. ‘She’s to blame. Bad influence on this family – right from the start.’
‘Dad,’ Magnus said, ‘you can’t keep blaming her.’
‘Why not, eh? You tell me why not!’ he barked from the winged chair, heavy jowls shaking in anger.
Magnus ran a hand through his hair and shook his head.
It was at that point that Marty turned to Carolyn. ‘You know something about this, don’t you?’ he said, his voice sounding bruised, as if instantly suspecting that she’d betrayed him.
‘Wh-what do you mean?’
‘She rang – yesterday.’
‘I told you, Marty, we were just chatting.’
‘But she must have said something!’ Marty said in exasperation. ‘Look!’ He picked up the copy of Vive! and waved it under Carolyn’s nose. ‘It’s in the paper, for God’s sake.’ And then he paused. ‘Hang on a minute. Wasn’t that man who visited a reporter? Caro?’
She nodded.
Marty opened the paper with clumsy hands. ‘Tom Mackenzie? The same man? What does he know that we don’t? Carolyn? What did he say to you?’
‘Nothing! He said nothing!’
‘Then why did he visit?’
‘I don’t know – he’d heard a rumour or something. I don’t remember. I had other things on my mind that day,’ she said, glaring at her husband lest he should have forgotten.
‘This just doesn’t make any sense. Why wouldn’t she tell us?’ Marty asked angrily.
Carolyn was fast becoming angry herself. They just had to take a closer look at themselves to see why Molly wouldn’t want to confide in them but they wouldn’t think to do that. Sometimes, she wanted to grab hold of them all and shake them until they saw sense. Instead she stood spectator-like, as the scene escalated out of control before her.
‘This is so like Molly – selfish, headstrong—’
Old Bailey interrupted Marty from his winged chair. ‘I don’t understand what’s going on!’ His bony hand extended and he grabbed the newspaper for a second time.
‘We’re trying to find out, Granddad.’
‘Well get a bloody move on before she spends all this money.’
Marty’s eyes widened at his words. ‘You’re right! We’ve got to get a move on. We’ve got to go after her,’ he said, looking round the room excitedly as if he was already mentally packing.
‘You can’t be serious, Marty!’ Carolyn said, fear filling her body.
‘I’m dead serious,’ Marty said. ‘We’ve got to find her. We’ve got to put a stop to all this nonsense.’
Carolyn knew she couldn’t let this happen; she had to try and make Marty see sense. ‘Wait!’ she said. ‘Just think for a moment. If Molly has won this money and she hasn’t told you, it’s for a reason, and there’s absolutely no point in you trying to find her because she doesn’t want to be found.’
Marty’s eyes narrowed. ‘You do know something about this, don’t you?’
‘I’ve told you, I don’t.’
‘Then why did she ring you yesterday?’
Carolyn sighed. ‘We were just talking – like we normally do.’
‘But she must have said something to you!’
‘Honestly, Marty, she didn’t,’ Carolyn said, swallowing quickly. As much as she hated lying to her husband, seeing his reaction to this firmly placed her on Molly’s side.
‘There’s something you’re not telling us, and that’s why we’ve got to get a move on. We’ve got to find her before she does something really stupid,’ Marty said.
‘I’m coming with you!’ Old Bailey shouted, and he was on his feet in a split second. ‘Where’s my scarf?’
‘Granddad, it’s the middle of August – you won’t need your scarf. Anyway, just hang on a minute,’ Marty said, his face scowling in deep thought. ‘It’s getting a bit late now. By the time we pack, we won’t get very far and then we’ll have to shell out for an overnighter.’
Magnus and Old Bailey nodded their heads in agreement.
‘Far better to start fresh in the morning.’
Carolyn rolled her eyes. ‘This is ridiculous. It doesn’t matter what she’s doing or where she’s doing it. She isn’t answerable to you.’
But it was no use; nobody was listening to her. The three Bailey men were poring over the newspaper again.
‘Moor View flats – Bradford!’ Magnus shouted. ‘Bloody hell – she’s been back to Bradford and she didn’t tell me!’
‘Five hundred pounds to each flat!’ Marty said.
‘That bloody Percy woman!’ Old Bailey said, shaking a fist at Vive!. ‘Let me get my scarf. We’ll leave first thing in the morning.’
Chapter Twenty-Two
Tom could feel beads of sweat breaking out on his forehead as the make-up girl hovered over him with a damp sponge the colour of mud.
‘Is that entirely necessary?’ he asked.
‘You don’t want to appear all blotchy and shiny on camera, do you?’ the girl said, running the brown sponge over his cheeks and squashing it into his nose as if she meant to remove it. ‘Sit still, please,’ she said in a voice like ice. ‘I’ve got Nicole and Juliette to do yet. You’re not the only celebrity on tonight, you know.’
‘N-Nicole?’ Tom said, his voice cracking in anticipation. It couldn’t be, could it? He couldn’t even begin to hope that it might be.
‘Ms Kidman is in the next dressing room, and I don’t want to keep her waiting.’
‘N-Nicole Kidman!’
‘Don’t go getting any ideas about disturbing her. She’s pretty down to earth but she still likes her privacy.’ The make-up artist slammed his drooping mouth shut before he drooled down the chin that she’d just got perfect.
‘And don’t go bothering Juliette either.’
‘J-Juliette?’ Tom was palpitating again.
‘Juliette Binoche.’ The make-up artist sighed. ‘Blimey. I would’ve thought a reporter like you would’ve done his homework before coming on a show with Nicole Kidman and Juliette Binoche!’
‘Done my homework!’ Tom said. His eyes glazed over. He wasn’t worried about having done his homework. He was more concerned that his deodorant was going to hold out when faced with two modern-day movie paragons.
‘Of course, I’ve done everyone in my time,’ the make-up artist smirked, her face bloated with smugness. ‘And I can tell you this for nothing – there’s no such thing as a natural beauty. You wouldn’t believe what some of these so-called sex symbols look like before I’ve dealt with them!’
But Tom wasn’t listening. Nicole Kidman and Juliette Binoche were down the hall. They were in the same building. He could run into them at any moment, in fact, he probably would. What would he say? What could he possibly say to the women of his dreams?
‘Hey!’ the make-up artist scolded. ‘Do you mind not perspiring quite so much? You’re sweating my foundation off.’
Tom glared at her but, before he could think of a fitting reprimand, there was a gentle knock on the door.
‘Come in!’ the make-up artist yelled.
‘Hi!’ A friendly voice floated in from the corridor and a red-haired beauty gazed in at Tom. ‘I just wanted to say good luck. You’re Tom, aren’t you?’
Tom nodded, his knees weak from the gorgeous Australian accent even though he was sitting down.
‘Thank you, N-Nicole.’
‘Interviews always make me nervous,’ she confessed, stepping into the room, her black dress revealing a good deal of honeyed thigh. ‘You’re very brave to go first,’ she said with a silvery giggle that made Tom’s flesh goosebump all over.
‘I am?’
‘Oh, yes! You have to warm the audience up, you know.’
‘I hadn’t thought about that,’ Tom said, feeling his forehead was now doing a rat
her good impression of Niagara Falls.
‘But you’ll be fine, I’m sure.’
‘Nicole!’ Another female voice sounded outside Tom’s dressing room and, seconds later, a dark-haired beauty peeped into his room. ‘Gosh! It’s Tom Mackenzie, isn’t it? I had no idea you were going to be on the show tonight!’ a breathless Juliette Binoche announced, her French accent setting his heart racing.
‘I know,’ Nicole said, ‘it’s so exciting, isn’t it! He’s first, too.’
‘Oooooo! You can warm the chair up for me, can’t you!’ Juliette smiled, winking a bright eye at him.
‘Juliette and I were just wondering who else was on tonight. She thought it was going to be some boring musician but we’re so glad it’s you.’
‘You are?’ Tom gazed at Nicole and immediately felt his heart accelerate into a speed that couldn’t possibly be considered healthy.
‘Well, ye-es!’ she smiled, her eyes sparkling. ‘We’d much rather have a hard-working reporter than some vain musician.’
‘But I thought actresses hated reporters.’
‘Think again!’ Nicole said, gliding further into the room and sliding a manicured hand onto his shoulder.
Any minute now, he thought, and he was going to hyperventilate.
‘You’ve got it all wrong,’ Juliette said, placing a hand on his other shoulder, smiling her bewitching smile at him.
‘Mr Mackenzie – it’s time.’ The make-up artist, who’d been happily forgotten since the arrival of the delectable duo, made her presence felt again as she aimed a jet of hairspray at him in a last attempt to get his look just right.
‘Good luck!’ Juliette smiled.
‘Knock ’em dead, gorgeous!’ Nicole laughed.
‘Th-thanks!’ Tom said, getting up and almost tripping over his own feet at the sight of his favourite actresses blowing kisses at him.
And, suddenly, he was out there: in front of the audience, in front of the cameras, in front of respected interviewer of the stars, Andre Levinson. He didn’t even notice the deafening applause until he sat down, his face frozen in terror.
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