Watching Willow Watts: One Country Girl Is About to Discover That Fame Can Cost a Fortune Read online

  To A, once again and always.

  Watching Willow Watts

  by

  Talli Roland

  Copyright 2011 © Talli Roland

  E-edition published worldwide 2011 by Prospera Publishing

  © Talli Roland

  All rights reserved in all media. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic or mechanical (including but not limited to: the Internet, photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system), without prior permission in writing from the author and/or publisher. This expressly includes sharing any part of the work online on any site whatsoever, unless the temporary sharing provided under licence by and via Amazon Kindle.

  The moral right of Talli Roland as the author of the work

  has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  e-ISBN 978-1-907504-22-8

  Paperback ISBN 978-1-907504-14-3

  Cover design © Prospera Publishing Inhouse

  Cover illustration of Marilyn © Dreamstime

  All characters and events featured in this book are entirely fictional and any resemblance to any person, organisation, place or thing living or dead, or event or place, is purely coincidental and completely unintentional.

  Contact: [email protected].

  Prospera Publishing Ltd UK

  “If I’m a star, then the people made me a star.”

  Marilyn Monroe.

  CHAPTER ONE

  ‘PLEASE, NOT THE KUMQUAT marmalade again,’ Willow Watts whispered as an elderly lady beckoned with a spoonful of jelly. Last year’s sample of the culinary horror had put her off kumquats for life – this one might kill her. Desperate to escape, Willow edged away from the row of booths dotting the green for Belcherton’s annual summer fair. If she could just get across to the other side . . .

  ‘Dear, over here! You must try this year’s batch. It’s come out wonderfully.’

  There wasn’t any choice now, was there? Pasting on a bright smile, Willow breathed an apology to her belly and reluctantly approached the table. Even though the fair was well underway, Mrs Greene was still fully stocked – hardly surprising given the jam tasted like feet. Willow inserted the small spoon into her mouth and swallowed.

  ‘Um-um,’ she faked, rubbing her stomach. ‘You make the best kumquat marmalade in all of Belcherton.’ It wasn’t a lie; no-one else in the village had anything to do with kumquats, thank God.

  Mrs Greene’s wrinkled face creased into a grin. ‘I knew you’d like it. Oh, before I forget, the Better Belcherton committee is meeting up at the church tomorrow morning at eight. You’re to bring biscuits, remember. Now, do you fancy another sample?’

  ‘Er, I’d better get going.’ Willow hastily backed away from the glistening jelly. Better Belcherton tomorrow, she repeated in her head. She’d forgotten a meeting last year and in retaliation, Mrs Greene had stuck her on biscuit duty for what seemed like forever.

  ‘Wills!’ Paula waved from her celebrity dress-up booth across the green. Wonky handwriting on a cardboard placard spelled out Pay a Pound. Be a Star! Off to the side of a small table, a rail held garishly bright costumes. Squinting, Willow recognised Elvis’s spangled white jumpsuit and . . . what was that curly blue wig? Marge Simpson?

  ‘Step right up! Choose a costume, any costume.’ Paula twirled an imaginary moustache. ‘Then I’ll snap your photo for posterity.’

  Willow shook her head – if anyone was photo-worthy, it was her best friend. Today, Paula’s thick mane of spiral-permed dark hair was caught up in a high side ponytail, and her wide blue eyes sparkled with green eye-shadow. Pinstripe denim hugged curvy legs, with an oversized neon top completing the look. And this wasn’t even a costume! ‘Rocker chic’, Paula liked to call her daily attire.

  ‘Sorry, I don’t have time.’ Willow glanced at her watch. Almost three, and she still had to mix up more orange squash, frost Mrs Lemmon’s extra cakes cooling in the kitchen, make sure Dad hadn’t forgotten his blood pressure medication . . .

  ‘Come on, it’s for a good cause. What, you can’t even support your own village? And your best friend?’ Paula pulled her scarlet lips downward in an exaggerated frown.

  ‘Oh, all right.’ Willow’s pound clanged against the other coins in the small basket on the table. ‘Which costume should I choose?’

  Paula propelled Willow over to the rail. ‘The Little Mermaid? Nah, boring. Elvis? Not sure that jumpsuit would fit you. Besides, Lordy’s just had it on.’ Willow grimaced, picturing the pub landlord’s belly straining at the fabric.

  ‘Here we go.’ Paula grabbed a musty-smelling white satin dress from the rack and thrust a platinum wig at Willow. ‘Marilyn Monroe.’

  ‘Marilyn Monroe?’ Willow raised her eyebrows, thinking she’d suit boring better than sex on wheels.

  ‘Just give it a try,’ Paula said, nudging Willow in the direction of a canvas tent.

  ‘Fine, fine.’ Willow ducked inside the small changing area. The faster she got into this get-up, the faster she could get out of it. Sighing, she tugged the wig over her thick chestnut hair and pushed its scratchy synthetic curls from her eyes.

  ‘Right, the hair’s on,’ she shouted, trying to ignore her itching scalp. ‘Just give me a sec to sort out the dress.’

  Tilting unsteadily, Willow drew the satin monstrosity over her daily uniform of T-shirt and jeans, nose wrinkling as the pungent combination of stale sweat and mothballs rose from the fabric. The once-white garment was now yellowed and stained, but thankfully it fit easily over Willow’s slender body so she didn’t have to come in contact with it. That was one advantage to having no curves.

  ‘Ready! Watch out, world, here I come.’ Stumbling from the tent, she struck a pose for Paula, whose mouth twitched as if she was holding back giggles. Fair enough; Willow could only imagine how ridiculous she looked. Tall, skinny women with what her father lovingly called ‘wholesome’ looks did not make convincing film stars.

  ‘You’ve got the wig on backwards, you clown!’ Paula clucked affectionately, neon wellies squishing as she negotiated a muddy patch toward Willow. She swivelled the hairpiece into place, then plucked at the satin until the dress fell in soft folds from Willow’s body.

  ‘There.’ Paula spun Willow around to face a rusty old mirror. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Oh God.’ Willow let out a groan as she took in her reflection. The iconic white dress so sexy on Marilyn was more circus-tent than siren on Willow, and the glossy platinum wig made her rosy cheeks seem inflamed. ‘Next time you convince me to play celebrity dress-up, remind me to choose someone with brown hair.’

  ‘Hello, ladies. Willow, don’t you look lovely.’ Simpson Dyer, Belcherton’s long-suffering – and only – member of the town’s tourism board came toward them, pointing a tiny digital camera at Willow. ‘Smile! I’m putting together a video to showcase our little piece of paradise to the world.’

  Willow forced herself to beam into the camera. God knows, Simpson and this village needed all the help it could get. No matter how many bad reviews Belcherton received from the media or Cotswolds tourists – everything from ‘it’s a dump’ to ‘don’t waste your time’ – Simpson always believed they were just one campaign away from achieving the legendary status of nearby Bournton-on-the-Water or Broadway.

  ‘So here we are at the celebrity dress-up booth,’ Simpson intoned in a movie-trailer announcer’s voice as he zoomed in the camera. �
��The lovely Willow Watts, a foremost expert in all things antique and an invaluable village resident, has donned the garb of the legendary Marilyn.’ He motioned for her to spin around and Willow obeyed, nearly toppling over as she turned.

  ‘Marilyn, can you sing us a little tune?’ Simpson was saying.

  Willow laughed. ‘Simpson, aren’t you trying to attract visitors? The sound of my voice would only scare them away. Anyway, aren’t the morris dancers starting soon?’ She craned her neck toward the centre of the green, hoping she hadn’t missed her father’s performance. Last year he’d been too ill to take part but today, with his blood pressure now stabilised, he was raring to go.

  ‘Oh, come on, Marilyn!’ Paula shouted from a few feet away, where she was trying to persuade a pensioner into an Alice Cooper costume. ‘Happy Birthday, Mr President . . .’ she crooned, waggling her eyebrows. Even with the eighties get-up, Paula was way more convincing as Marilyn than Willow could ever hope to be.

  Big fat raindrops were now falling from the sky, but Willow couldn’t help laughing and joining in. What the hell – it wasn’t like this video would ever see the light of day. Simpson’s grand schemes usually gathered dust. ‘Happy birthday’ – Willow did a little shimmy – ‘to you, happy birthday to you.’ Swaying her reed-like body back and forth, she took a few careful steps through the mud toward Simpson. ‘Happy birthday, Mr President . . .’ She curved her lips in a sexy grin. ‘Happy birthday to you!’

  Willow’s face went hot when she realised her crow-like voice was echoing alone.

  ‘God! Remind me not to ask you to do karaoke with me,’ Paula joked.

  ‘I told you I couldn’t sing,’ Willow protested. She didn’t even dare hum unless it was in the privacy of her own room, and even then she kept it low so her dad couldn’t hear.

  ‘That’s all right,’ Simpson said soothingly. ‘I can play around with the sound.’ He polished the glassy eye of the camera, then turned toward the group of men filtering onto the green. ‘Oh, the morris men are starting. I’ll see you ladies later.’

  ‘Can you get me out of this?’ Willow asked Paula. ‘Dad will kill me if I miss his big comeback.’

  ‘Hold on, I’m supposed to snap your photo as a celeb,’ Paula said, although she didn’t look too eager to stay out in the rain. Her ponytail was beginning to droop and the heavy black eyeliner had started melting down her face.

  Willow waved a hand. ‘Don’t worry about it.’ No way did she want to remember this moment.

  Paula squelched over and unzipped the back of the sodden dress, helped Willow step out of it, then took the wig from Willow’s head. She made a face as she lifted a clump of Willow’s thick brown hair. ‘Why don’t you drop in for a cut tomorrow, babes? Reckon you’d look fab with a few pink extensions, too.’

  ‘I’ve got a meeting up at the church and then I’m with Dad at the shop,’ Willow said quickly. Paula was always after her to change her hair, but Willow couldn’t see the point of making an effort. ‘Anyway, it’s not like I’m trying to impress people here. I could shave my head and they wouldn’t care.’

  ‘That’s because they all have cataracts!’ Paula retorted. ‘And just because you’re not trying to impress anyone doesn’t mean you have to walk around with split-ends, you know. Even nuns get haircuts!’

  Willow laughed. She might as well be a nun for all the action she got these days. God, she hadn’t even dated since . . . no, she wouldn’t think about that.

  ‘Come on, let’s go watch my dad,’ Willow said, taking Paula’s arm as they hurried toward the growing crowd in the middle of the green. ‘I just hope he doesn’t pull a hamstring this year.’

  CHAPTER TWO

  WILLOW JAMMED A PILLOW over her head, trying to block out Krusty the rooster’s daily wake-up call. It wasn’t even a proper rooster noise: Krusty had lost his voice years ago, and all that escaped now was an ungodly croaking like a cross between a bullfrog and a fog horn. Only Mum’s devotion to the ancient rooster – who she’d rescued years ago from Mrs Lemmon’s stock pot – had kept Willow’s father from shooing off the bird for good.

  Krusty’s hoarse caws increased in frequency and Willow heard her dad mutter the usual threats from his bedroom. At least he was awake. After yesterday’s action on the green, she’d wondered if he’d spend all day sleeping off the effects of too much kicking and jumping. Despite her worry, it had been good to see him taking part in things again.

  Might as well get started on the biscuits for the Better Belcherton meeting, she thought, pulling on jeans and a T-shirt. It was a pain in the arse making them from scratch – baking was definitely not her speciality – but Mrs Greene claimed shop-bought treats were bad for her ulcer and the fresher the biscuits, the better her mood.

  Cracking an egg into a mixing bowl, Willow’s mind drifted to what she’d be doing right now if she was still a florist at Liberty’s in London. At this time of the morning, the small shop space at the front of the iconic department store would be filled with the heady scent of blossoms fresh from the delivery truck, and the London pavements would be quiet and gleaming. Brightly coloured pots stuffed with flowers of all kinds would be standing proudly, ready for the day’s customers.

  After ramming a tray into the oven, Willow sank into a chair as she thought about the day ahead. Discussing village improvements, then sitting at a dusty desk in her dad’s antique shop couldn’t be more different from her old life. She’d been so excited to have a career in the big city, dreaming of her very own flower shop one day . . . Sighing, Willow shoved all that away. There were more important things to focus on now.

  The timer dinged and Willow slid the slightly singed biscuits into a tin and headed down the empty high street. Living in a small town meant it didn’t take long to get anywhere, unlike London where travelling a mile could eat up an hour. Belcherton’s high street started at the village green – flanked by the pub, church, and makeshift tourist centre (doubling as a bus shelter) – and ended at Paula’s beauty salon, less than a quarter mile away. In between were her dad’s shop, the off-licence, the charity shop, and row upon row of identical houses that had seen better days. Beyond the village confines lay the odd farmhouse or two before the countryside gave way to rolling fields.

  Breathing in the fresh early-morning air, Willow nearly stumbled over a cracked paving stone. God, what was it with this village? It didn’t matter how many times something was fixed, it always broke again. No wonder the council had almost given up hope.

  ‘I’ve got ginger snaps!’ Willow called as she walked into the church sanctuary. Mrs Lemmon rushed forward as fast as her Zimmer frame could carry her and grabbed three.

  ‘Heavens, Lorna, leave one for us,’ Mrs Greene said, smartly rapping the woman’s spindly fingers.

  ‘Hello, ladies.’ The group turned from the biscuits as the dapper form of Simpson approached.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ Mrs Greene asked suspiciously. ‘This meeting is members only. We write our recommendations and give them to you, remember?’

  Simpson smiled. ‘I know, I know. But this is breaking news, and I wanted to share it with Better Belcherton straight away.’

  What, had someone managed to touch their toes? With the amount of arthritis sufferers in the village, that would be a miracle and as close to breaking news as Belcherton ever got.

  The women drew nearer. ‘What is it?’ asked Mrs Lemmon.

  ‘I have finally managed to put our esteemed village on the World Wide Web!’ Simpson said triumphantly. ‘Have you ever heard of a little thing called YouTube?’

  ‘Of course,’ Mrs Greene answered impatiently. ‘Did you see that video of the cat playing piano? Wasn’t that sweet?’

  The ladies mumbled and nodded in response, and Willow’s mouth dropped open. She didn’t even watch YouTube! Who knew the pensioners of Belcherton were so tech savvy?

  ‘Well, after a long hard night and a lot of work, I’m proud to say the video I shot yesterday can now be viewed anywhere
, at any time,’ Simpson said.

  Oh God. Fingers crossed she’d ended up on the cutting room floor. But his next words banished any hope.

  ‘And you, Willow Watts, are a star!’

  ‘What do you mean, a star?’ she asked, heart sinking. Surely Simpson hadn’t included more than a second of her Marilyn monstrosity . . . had he?

  ‘Now, don’t worry, my dear. I ran your voice through my editing programme to make it sound less’ – he paused – ‘unique, and I even managed to put a little photo of Marilyn floating above your head, just in case there was any confusion about who you were impersonating. We don’t want people to think we’re a bunch of singing loons up here in Belcherton, do we?’ He laughed heartily.

  Willow cringed, imagining just what she would look like.

  ‘Show us this video, then.’ Mrs Greene tapped Mrs Lemmon’s fingers as she reached for another biscuit. ‘We’ve got more important business to attend to.’

  An injured look crossed Simpson’s face and Willow patted his arm. He tried so hard for Belcherton and all his efforts came to nothing. ‘I’m sure it’s great, Simpson,’ she said as they waited for the laptop to boot up.

  ‘Okay, ready? Here we go.’ Simpson hit the ‘play’ button and the women leaned even closer as the video began.

  Images of Mrs Lemmon stirring the honey mead – then slipping in some of her famous bootleg rum – made Willow grin. So that was what had given the mead extra kick! A few shots of cake and the horrific kumquat marmalade; Belcherton’s WI ladies sipping tea . . . Oh! Willow squinted as the camera cut to Paula’s celebrity dress-up booth.

  Her eyes bulged as she took in the figure on-screen. The platinum wig looked every bit as dire as she remembered and the dress hung untidily off one shoulder. Her voice sounded marginally better than usual, but it wasn’t exactly up to Marilyn’s standards. Thank God Simpson had put that grainy black and white picture floating over her head, or people would think she was just a crazy loon.