Celebrity Bride

by Alison Kervin

  'It was as if all the anger from the rejection she'd faced as a child re-emerged with Jon's death,' said leading psychologist Dr Matthew Stevenson. 'Elody became a liability; lashing out at models she'd once worked with and turning up drunk at catwalk shows. She was desperate to win her place back in society and for people to look up to her again, but she was persona non grata which sent her more deeply into the cycle of depression.'

  By the time she sought help, and managed to get control over her drinking, the world of fashion had left her behind. She was never again the star she once had been, and that haunted her to her dying moments, at the hands of an unknown murderer in the exclusive Royal Institute of Fashion. The most haunting thing of all is that the murder happened on the second anniversary of the death of Jon Boycott.

  'I see that Katie woman has been made editor now,' I say to Mandy and Sophie who just look at me blankly. I guess they haven't become quite as obsessed with the machinations of the national press as I have.

  'It's just this woman who's been writing about me in the Daily Post since she first got wind of the fact that I was seeing Rufus. It was she who "broke the story" as they say in the media. Now I've become such a huge story she's got herself a promotion on the back of it all. Well done, love: showbiz editor. Wow, won't Mum and Dad be happy! She's written today about Elody's background. It's awful. I never knew what a tough life she had.'

  I lay down the paper, trying to fold it beneath the blanket thrown across my head. The girls are silent. They hate it when the subject of Elody comes up because they really don't know what to say. We're in the car on the way to Hampton Court and it's a complete bloody farce. It's ridiculous. I need an entourage of six just to get to the Rose Garden and sit on a bench with no name. They bundled me out of the house with more aggression than the police ever used, and hurled me into the back of Jimmy's terribly discreet (not) pink Mercedes and we went off, hurtling through the streets of Twickenham pursued by half the world's media with Jimmy shouting 'Awright, darling,' to every woman he passed. Oh God.

  'You're like Princess Diana,' says Mandy when she sees how many photographers there are alongside us. There's a silence in the car and I peek out at her from beneath my woollen roof. It's not a helpful comparison to make since the Princess died in circumstances not unlike this . . . except she wasn't in the back of Jimmy's candyfloss-pink stripper mobile with its garish leopard-skin interior.

  We phoned ahead to the palace where I spoke to Frank who has closed off the Rose Garden for an hour for 'essential pruning'. Quite why such basic garden maintenance should involve the closure of an entire garden is something I won't worry myself about. I'm sure there are few people in the world who'll question lovely Frank's gardening strategies so we might just about get away with this.

  He's waiting for us when we arrive. I'm about as flustered as it's possible for a woman to be and he's sitting there, entirely at ease, saying he enjoys the quietness when the garden's closed and thinks he might work this pruning rouse more often.

  'Tea?' he offers, handing me a little plastic cup that he's removed from the top of his flask. He gives it to me with hands that seem so much larger than they ought for such a slight and wiry man. They're wrinkly and mud-covered. I wonder why he doesn't wear gloves.

  I take a gentle sip and feel my teeth retreating from the sugar attack. He must have about eight spoons in there. Jeez. It's nice though.

  'My grandson Lawrence made the tea today,' he says proudly, and I feel myself smile. Lawrence is such a lovely guy. He works in the gardens too and is sweet and desperately shy. He's also huge; a great big lumbering hulk of a man. Every time I see him I think of Mandy – he's just her type.

  'Is it OK for me to come here?' I ask. 'Or is it going to make things difficult for you?'

  'It's fine,' he says. 'In fact, if you don't continue to come here you'll make an old man very sad. Just call up beforehand and speak to me, or Lawrence, and we'll shut it for an hour. No one will mind. Call Lawrence's mobile telephone; you've got the number, haven't you? He'll pass the message on to me.'

  'Are you sure?'

  'Of course I'm sure, love. And what'll they do if they do mind? Sack me? I'm nearly eighty and haven't been on the payroll for fifteen years so there's not a lot they can do.'

  'Thanks,' I say, taking another sip of the tea.

  'Kelly. Someone to see you,' Mandy shouts through the flat before running into my bedroom where I'm lying on my bed wearing nothing but my underwear.

  'Shit. You look really thin. You have to start eating,' she says. There's a look of pure horror on her face. I know she's right; I haven't really eaten since I got back here ten days ago and I realise that's silly, but I can't bring myself to think about putting anything in my mouth.

  I'm surviving on a diet of sweet tea and HobNobs from Frank in the Rose Garden every day. 'The thought of food makes me feel queasy,' I say.

  'I know, but if you don't eat you're going to get ill. You know that Heat magazine had a picture of you this week. You were in the "too skinny by far" section.'

  I smile when she says that. It puts things in perspective really. When I was deliriously happy I was in the 'too fat by far' section of the magazine.

  I can't believe what's happened. I can't believe anything. I can't believe how much I miss Rufus. Every minute of every day crawls past; every one of them tortured by the thought of him. I feel all twisted up and ruined inside. I miss him so much it's insane. I'd give anything to go back in time. Anything.

  'I don't want to see anyone,' I say to Mandy, as I've been saying to both the girls since I got here. I don't want to see anyone, talk to anyone or think about anyone. All I want to do is make my daily visit to the Rose Garden to drink tea with Frank and listen to him talking about the roses. I've spoken to him about Rufus, of course, and he's told me how wonderful Rufus is.

  'You're not helping, Frank,' I say, but he just smiles and looks out towards the palace.

  'Give him a chance,' he's always saying. 'Just let him talk to you.'

  I can't do that though. I can't have him anywhere near me. I won't be able to cope. I'm barely coping at the moment. Just existing and hoping this nightmare comes to an end while knowing all the time that it can't. It's a nightmare without an ending.

  'Come on. Clothes on,' Mandy insists. She's really cheered up over the past week . . . ever since Frank's grandson Lawrence took a shine to her. They've been out once or twice and I think they really like each other. I'm pleased; Lawrence is a lovely guy.

  'Get dressed quickly; it's important,' she says again.

  'It's not Rufus is it?' I ask, a wave of terror running through me at the thought of him sitting out there in the flat, drinking tea from chipped mugs with Sophie.

  'Of course it's not Rufus,' she says.

  The bouncers won't let him anywhere near the flat. He comes round several times a day, and calls constantly, but the girls know that if they let him in, or hand the phone to me just once, I'll leave the flat for ever. Since they're terrified about what I'll do, I know they want to keep me here where they can keep an eye on me and make sure I'm as safe as possible, so they continue to send Rufus packing without giving him any explanation whatsoever.

  'It's the police,' she says. 'That guy Detective Inspector Barnes – the good-looking one. He wants to talk to you.'

  Oh joy.

  'Hi,' I say, walking into the sitting room, and I see his eyebrows rise.

  'Have you not been well?' he asks and he sounds genuinely concerned. 'You look so pale and thin. You must eat.'

  'Yeah, thanks. I've had that lecture once today,' I say, flopping onto the sofa next to him. 'What information do you need now?'

  The police have been back a couple of times since I was released without charge; they've been nice actually. Popping in to check I'm OK and moving the photographers away from outside. They've been keeping me briefed on things as they search the land for the killer, but have got no closer to finding the guy who did it. It's always Barnes
who comes round, and at first I thought he was just being diligent. Then I noticed the way he looked at Sophie. I think he fancies her.

  'We've had some interesting information come to light,' he says in his police-officery way.

  'Oh,' I say, sitting up and immediately paying closer attention because, despite my fragile physical and mental state, I'm as keen as anyone for them to find the person who callously murdered Elody and bring him or her to justice. I notice that the girls are sitting right forward too, looking at the detective with rather too much attention. Sophie is dressed up in the tightest of jeans, a rather lowcut top and the highest shoes she owns. She has an astonishing amount of make-up on: bright red lips and so much blusher that it looks like she's been slapped. She is smiling at him like an affectionate drunk. I think she needs to work on her approach a little; I don't know whether Detective Barnes is likely to fall for an alcoholic clown. I look over at him. I suppose he's attractive, really. If you go for the big and hairy look. Mandy and Sophie clearly do.

  'We've cleaned up the CCTV footage,' he says which is a rather baffling introduction to any sort of conversation, so we all just stare at him. 'You know, the CCTV footage from the door at the back of the building. I think we might have mentioned last time we were here that the only logical point of entry for the assailant was that rear door, but the footage from it was very patchy. Well, it was sent off to be cleaned up and it's come back. Clean.'

  'And . . .'

  'And,' he goes on, 'that means no one entered through the back door.'

  'Oh. So what does that mean?'

  'It means the assailant must have entered through the front door.'

  Gosh, these policemen are bright.

  'But,' he continues, 'everyone who entered through the front door had a watertight alibi for the time of the murder.'

  He's got us now. We're all looking from one to the other in total confusion, wondering whether an 'assailant' was beamed down from the ceiling, or climbed out of a desk drawer.

  'So where did this "assailant" come from?'

  'We're not ruling out suicide at this stage.'

  'Suicide?'

  'Suicide,' he repeats gravely. 'I say we're not ruling it out because we haven't established it yet, but we have established that it is possible for her to have stabbed herself. Scientists have looked at the angle at which the dagger entered the victim's body and the way in which it had been pushed. It's clear that she could have done it. A pathologist called Michael James is looking at the body again; he's the best in the business. He has biomechanics and doctors with him. We'll know more when they finish. One thing that is odd is that there's no suicide note. It's unusual to say the least for a suicide victim not to leave a note of some kind so we're going back through her possessions and final movements in the hope of finding one.'

  'Oh.'

  The detective looks across at us, lingering a little longer than is strictly necessary when he comes to Sophie's cleavage, then stands up to leave.

  'Well, I won't keep you ladies any longer. Just wanted to keep you fully briefed. I'll call back if there are any more developments,' he says.

  'Oh please do,' says Sophie. 'Let me show you out.'

  'Thanks Bob. Yes, you join us live at Richmond police station where we have just heard from the team investigating the death of Elody Elloissie that they now believe she committed suicide. That's right; despite conducting a massive murder investigation, arresting one of Elody's closest friends – Kelly Monsoon – and interrogating another – Isabella Bronks-Harrison – they now think the stylist took her own life. I'm joined by Katie Joseph, the senior showbiz editor of the Daily Post newspaper.

  'Katie, you revealed last week that Elody died on the anniversary of her former lover's death. Do you think that's why she committed suicide?'

  'Yes, I think that's probably why. She was very cut up when he died. I don't think she ever properly got over it.'

  'Thanks, Katie. For more of our exclusive interview with Katie Joseph, see www.sky.com. Now over to Brett for the weather.'

  THE MYSTERY OF ELODY'S SUICIDE BID

  EXCLUSIVE

  By Katie Joseph

  Daily Post Showbiz Editor

  Our woman in the know gives you the full behind-the-scenes story on what happened at the heart of the police operation to convince them that Elody Elloissie had committed suicide. EXCLUSIVELY in the Daily Post, your top newspaper for showbiz news.

  It was Michael James, a pathologist working with Scotland Yard's murder squad, who found the crucial mark that would convince police detectives that Elody Elloissie had committed suicide. A 'hilt' wound found between her thumb and index finger confirmed to them after a two and a half week operation to find a murderer, that she had taken her own life.

  They investigated the shape, depth and direction of the mark, and became clear in their minds that this was not a murder after all, but the actions of a woman feeling so miserable that she wished to take her own life.

  But what continued to baffle police was why there was no suicide note left. Was this a spur of the moment decision? Then, yesterday morning, while searching through files on her computer, they found a video message explaining that she planned to take her own life on the anniversary of the death of her great love, the fashion designer Jon Boycott. Daily Post believes that the video reveals that Elloissie felt she was personally responsible for the death of her boyfriend because when she found her boyfriend's body – half-dead after a night of drug-taking – she fled the flat in panic, rather than calling an ambulance. Even though she returned to the flat and rang for help, over an hour had passed – a period of time in which critical care could have been given to her boyfriend.

  'I killed him as surely as if I'd plunged a knife into him myself, and that's what I plan to do today, to myself, to say sorry for what I did to Jon, and to be with him once more.'

  Elloissie goes on to explain that the reason she didn't call for assistance straight away was because she worried about what the revelation might do to Jon's career. 'As soon as I calmed down, I rushed back and called an ambulance, but it was too late. I killed him.'

  Police will outline their discoveries at the inquest, which is scheduled for the end of next week. It marks a tragic end to the story that has captivated millions in this lead up to Christmas. It is believed that Hollywood producers have been in discussions about making a movie about the doomed affair, which led to the death of Elloissie who was, at one time, the world's most influential stylist.

  Chapter 28

  'I can't hear it,' says Mandy, walking round the flat and straining so much she looks as if she's about to go to the toilet. Her eyes are all screwed up and she has an intense concentration about her. 'Oh no, hang on. I can hear something. What's that? Yes, stop. I can hear it now. Nope. It's gone. You need to ring the phone again.'

  'This is bloody insane,' says Sophie dialling my mobile from her phone. We all fall silent, listening for the sound of ringing.

  'Yes,' they both say, leaning over slightly with their heads tilted. We all wander through the flat in this bizarre, hunched over, straining with concentration manner, listening intently in the hope of hearing it ring.

  'I can definitely hear something,' I say, hoping that we'll find my bloody phone after a morning of searching for it. I know I had it last night because we had a little impromptu pre-Christmas Eve drinks party, and Mum called to check I was OK. But what did I do with it then? No one knows.

  The phone goes to answerphone so I hang up. 'We're never going to find this thing are we?' I say, as the two girls peer at me through eyes that are still suffering the after-effects of last night's alcohol. 'Come on, let's have a cup of tea.'

  I head in the direction of the kettle while Mandy swings open the fridge door to pull out the milk. 'Aha!!' she cries making the two of us jump into the air. 'Guess what's in the fridge?'

  'Oh God. If it was once living, please just throw it away and don't tell us about it,' I plead, fearing that she's found a de
ad mouse or toad or bat or something stuck in the ice at the back where we really should have defrosted.

  'Nope. Nothing terrible . . . Da . . . da . . . da . . .' She holds out my phone, freezing cold, but all intact. 'Happy Christmas Eve,' she says.

  'What the hell was it doing in the fridge?' I ask. She shrugs, Sophie shrugs and we all burst out laughing. 'I think that must be the end to the perfect party,' I say, because we did have a load of fun last night.

  It's been over two weeks now since I left Richmond and, though not a day goes by when I don't feel my insides turning themselves inside out with the pain of not being able to see Rufus, I know I've done the right thing. I know he needs to be free to find someone who's like him and can live in that odd world of his.

  Mandy and Sophie have been brilliant. We've had so many nights lying on the sofa chatting over huge pizzas (I've got money now so we have one each and we eat them with Châteauneuf-du-Pape as I explain how I developed my newfound love for wine after our wine-tasting night). I also tell them about Rufus and what it was like living with a screen god.

  'The paparazzi surrounded the house, constantly,' I say. 'It was awful.'

  'They surround the flat too,' counters Sophie. 'They're outside 24/7 now, afraid to leave the place unmanned since you upped and escaped at 4 am last time they took a coffee break.

  Last night at the drinks get-together, we invited Katy and Jenny who I used to work with because the girls were desperate for me to put them straight on the situation with me being given my own office. Once I ran through it all from my point of view, they got it completely. We even had a game of Malteser-throwing to celebrate the fact that everything was great with us now, but it turned out I'd lost the knack a little and hurled the Maltesers with such force and with no regard at all for direction that it's taken me half the morning to clear the chocolate-shaped dabs off the wall.