Jules gulped in the smell of fresh raindrops about to tip from the sky above, and pushed thoughts of Guy aside.
Everything would be fine. She had weathered a tiny storm of mortifying embarrassment from the Newspaper, Guy, and her own foolish behaviour, but it would be sunshine from now on, she told herself.
He wouldn’t be back. Her bitter comments had seen to that, she thought with an unexpected burst of sadness. Before she could dwell on the feelings, Jules summoned the image of her face on the front page of a tabloid. The sadness disappeared as quickly as it had arrived, replaced by the familiar comfort of a slow burning anger.
Just then, the rattle of an engine brought Jules out of her thoughts.
A muck covered Land Rover, that looked like it might once have been black, roared up the lane and stopped when it passed her. Jules heard the gears crunch with a sense growing dread as the vehicle sped backwards.
A blonde woman, only a little older than Jules, lent across to the passenger side and pumped the handle of the car window. ‘Jules, Lovey how are you?’
Jules did not know how to respond. Ever since she’d felt Max’s breath on the back of her neck that morning, nothing seemed to be making sense.
The woman had the craziest hair she’d ever seen. Giant blonde frizzy corkscrew curls sprung out in every direction, as if the woman had a stream of electricity running through her.
‘Sally Pegg,’ the woman added, reading the confusion on Jules’ face. ‘Bill’s wife. We’ve got the farm up the hill. We met last night, although I’m not surprised if you don’t remember. I’ve had the pleasure of Rich’s lethal cocktails on more than one occasion.’
Jules nodded and smiled. ‘Hi.’
She wished the haze of her hangover would clear and her memory return. The tight grip she kept on her life seemed to be loosening by the minute.
‘Look I can’t stop,’ Sally continued. ‘One of the cows is as constipated as a cement block. Just wanted to remind you about the invite to Sunday lunch soon okay? The kids are dying to meet Cottinghale’s very own celebrity,’ she said without taking a breath. ‘And I need to hear all about THE Guy Rawson, what a hunk.’ Sally grinned.
‘Great,’ Jules answered through gritted teeth, keeping her mouth in a smile as tiredness overwhelmed her.
It was one thing for The Daily to force a ridiculous celebrity status on her, digging up her past and stomping over her present, but if she had to deal with the same from the local residents then her stay in Cottinghale would be nothing like the tranquil seclusion she’d envisaged several months ago.
Why did she have to get drunk and open her mouth in the first place? Jules berated herself.
This was all Guy’s fault.
‘Brill’ Sally crunched the old 4x4 into first gear. ‘Oh by the way,’ she shouted back to Jules as she began to pull away. ‘We checked the paper and you’re off the hook today.’
‘What?’ Jules asked more to herself than to Sally, who had already sped up the lane before Jules had chance to process her last sentence.
Ten
THE DAILY
WEDNESDAY, FEBRUARY 18TH
GUY HIT SMASHES RECORDS
Guy Rawson’s debut single has become the most downloaded song of the year just two days after its release. His smash hit ‘Regret’ jumped to number one on Sunday from radio play alone and looks to stay there for some time based on sales figures released today.
Since turning his back on modelling, the 27-year old has established himself as a successful solo artist. Within a matter of months, the London born singer has swapped his super-groomed catwalk style for what editor of our style magazine, Lips, Tracey White has termed ‘The retro stubble look’.
But far from lower his status as Britain’s’ top hunk, White has tipped Guy to be voted Hotty of the year in next month’s poll. “Not only is Guy more visible to the public now, but his music really hits a chord with women.”
Nominated for best newcomer at next month’s Lotus Awards, Rawson looks set to take the music biz and woman everywhere by storm.
Is Guy still your fav British hunk? Get voting online NOW!
Only when she entered the farm shop halfway between the pub at the bottom of the lane and the guesthouse at the top, did Jules understand Sally’s last comment.
‘Sold out,’ Stan explained, his hand passing over the remaining newspapers spread in front of him.
So far, the balding shop owner seemed to Jules to be the only person in Cottinghale who had not been injected with an overdose of friendliness.
He narrowed his eyes on her. ‘But what did you expect, asking anyone who would listen to keep their eyes peeled for stories about you?’
‘I said that?’ Jules exclaimed, wondering what or who had invaded her body and done the exact opposite of her wishes. Never in her right mind would she have dragged the entire hamlet into her life. Bloody Guy and his newspaper, and bloody Rich with his ridiculous concoctions, she fumed.
‘Yep.’ Stan moved out from the long counter covering the wall to the right of the door. Stepping into the middle of the store, he began unpacking a cardboard crate of large earth covered potatoes into a sloped display next to an array of other vegetables.
‘Anything else you were looking for?’ he asked without looking up from his task.
‘What about the copy that you were delivering to the house? Can’t I look at that one?’ she asked, ignoring the shop owner’s obvious annoyance at her presence and selecting a Curly Whirly from the colourful display of chocolate bars stacked by the till.
Stan let out a deep sigh. ‘So you want that now do you?’
‘Yes please,’ she responded in the most pleasant voice she could muster. It was only two days ago that she’d had great difficulty convincing Stan to stop the deliveries in the first place.
‘Sold that one too,’ he replied, his face twisting into an amused smile.
‘Oh.’
‘I suppose,’ he paused, breathing out another long sigh and wiping his hands on his long green apron. ‘If you don’t mind looking at a creased copy, I could let you take a quick look through mine.’
‘Thank you Stan, that’s very kind of you,’ she replied, gritting her teeth with frustration as Stan busied himself with the potatoes for a few moments longer, before stepping back to the counter.
‘Here you go then.’ He reached under the till and handed the paper to Jules.
‘Thanks.’
‘I suppose next you’ll be wanting me to put one aside for you each morning?’ his tone gruff as he reached for a leather-bound notebook.
‘That would be great, thank you.’ She had no desire to hunt through a trashy tabloid every day, but after the shock of Guy’s visit and her strange behaviour in the pub, did she really have a choice? If she wanted to avoid any more surprises then a walk to Stan’s shop each morning would have to become part of her routine for a few days at least.
‘You’re not in it, but your boyfriend is mentioned somewhere in the middle.’
‘He’s not my boyfriend,’ she muttered, trying to keep the edge from her voice as she rummaged through the pages and found the mention of Guy.
It took two careful checks from front to back before Jules felt confident Guy had been wrong.
Nobody cared about her and nobody would bother speaking to the paper about her. It had all been part of his pathetic games after all, she realised; too relieved that her life could return to normal to feel any more anger at the mess Guy had already caused.
‘Everything alright up the house?’ Stan’s voice interrupted her thoughts.
She folded the newspaper in her hands and passed it back to Stan. ‘Yes of course, why wouldn’t it be?’ she quizzed, handing him the money for her chocolate bar.
‘Just wondered if the old tenants minded all the changes going on.’
‘Why would they mind?’ she asked, puzzled by the shop owner’s bizarre question.
‘Not my place to say,’ Stan answered, busying himself wi
th his notebook entries.
Jules stared at the top of Stan’s shining head as he bent over the counter, waiting for him to explain.
He said nothing.
‘Right, well bye then,’ Jules said, brushing aside her confusion and continuing her walk up the road.
A sugar hit and a shower and she’d be ready for work, Jules told herself, tearing open the chocolate bar wrapper and devouring it in three mouthfuls.
It was only when the bleary gaze of her eyes fell onto to the tiny bed, did she wonder if she could allow herself a quick nap.
Before she had a chance to change her mind, Jules stripped off her clothes and slipped under the cold covers. Feeling the throbbing of her headache slow down, she closed her eyes and allowed sleep to take her.
Eleven
Loughborough University (Five years earlier)
THE DAILY
SATURDAY, JULY 02ND
FROST HAS MELTED
Super model Lola Frost (20) has finally dropped her famous Frost-y glare in favour of a super smile. Posing at the launch of GiGi sports new swim and leisurewear, the pouting model couldn’t hide her more saucy side as she joked with newcomer and the latest face of GiGi, Guy Rawson (22).
According to insiders at the launch, held at the exclusive Farnsworth Hotel in Mayfair, the change in Frost’s mood is all down to the charms of her gorgeous co-star.
Rawson and Frost are rumoured to have hit it off instantly and are already planning a romantic get-away once the publicity for their new campaign is over.
Juliet shivered as she dragged her body out of the front door. The warmth from the late afternoon sun unable to penetrate the layer of sadness chilling her to the bone.
Fourteen days, she reminded herself, covering her puffy eyelids with a pair of pink sun glasses, and forcing her feet to move forward. He had been gone for fourteen days.
She had survived the first week in an anesthetised blur.
The gown fitting; the photographer; the graduation ceremony; dinner with her parents; it had happened. The memories were still fresh in her head, and yet it was as if someone else had done those things. Just breathing in and out had sapped all of her energy.
The shock had worn off after the first week, leaving in its place the deadening reality of her situation.
Guy had left her.
He was gone, she reminded herself again, welcoming the fresh wave of hurt it caused as she dragged her body towards the local shops.
Somewhere along the way, between the numbing disbelief, the desperate hope, and the crushing confusion of their break-up, she had become an emotional self-harmer. Raking over every aspect of their relationship and the day he’d left until the wound remained open and raw.
The day of their argument had been just as hot and balmy. Perfect for the picnic she’d planned.
One minute she’d been absorbing the last rays of afternoon sun, enjoying the taste of ripe warm strawberries, only a week away from graduating University, and the next stage of their lives.
They’d planned to stay Loughborough and find a one-bedroom flat. Just the two of them at last. She’d had an internship lined up with an interior design agency, whilst Guy had planned to pick up a few shifts behind the bar at their local in between his gigs. It wasn’t a long-term plan, but it was something they’d decided together, or so she’d thought.
The next minute Guy had obliterated their future and in its place told her his new idea.
He was leaving Loughborough.
He was leaving his dreams of becoming a singer.
He was leaving her.
Three nuggets of information exploding like nuclear bombs in her head.
The memory of his words felt like the twist of a knife in her chest.
The heat of the day now pounded into her brain, but she had to get out. She had to eat. All she had to do was pick up a carton of milk and some bread, and then she could bury herself once more in his smell still lingering on their bed covers.
It should be simple. Something she had done a hundred times. Yet, in that moment, walking the short distance to the corner shop to buy a pint of milk felt like an insurmountable task.
Suddenly, out of nowhere, she felt his presence.
He had come back.
Juliet stopped dead, twisting her body in a full circle as her eyes sought out the familiar frame of his body. Her heart jumped into her throat and despite the horror of the past fortnight she felt a rush of happiness gush through her veins.
Then she saw it.
Her eyes fixing onto the poster at the bus stop directly in front of her. Guy’s life size body stared back.
Her brain failed to compute the information before her. It had to be a hallucination.
Her hand clenched the warm metal of the nearest lamp post, forcing her body to stay upright as she fought the urge to reach out and touch his face.
She knew him inside out. The man in the poster was definitely him. The mop of his messy hair had gone and so had the cheeky lopsided grin, which never failed to turn her stomach to mush.
She searched his face for some sign of familiarity but nothing but the stony pose of a model stared back.
She had to get out of the sun. Spinning around, Juliet dived into the cool interior of the mini-mart; the cool air from an electric fan prickling against her skin as her eyes adjusted to the change in light.
What had just happened? Guy, the scruffy musician who wore torn up jeans and faded t-shirts; the love of her life who never bothered to brush his hair or look in a mirror; how could that same person be modelling sports clothes?
As her legs regained their strength, Juliet moved back in the direction of the doorway. She had to see it again. But before she could step back outside something in the corner of her eye made her hesitate.
Turning slowly, she scanned the newspaper display by the door. Her breathing felt hurried and erratic as if a part of her mind already knew the image about to assault her.
Then saw it. On the front page of one of the brightly coloured tabloids was another photograph of Guy.
‘No,’ the cry escaped her mouth as she absorbed the picture of him staring at the camera, his arm looped around the shoulder of a skinny brunette.
Grabbing the paper, Juliet read the article; each line causing fresh pain to cut deeper inside her.
Two weeks without a single word; countless unanswered phone calls; and then this. She could not grasp the reality laid out in print before her very eyes.
‘Miss, are you alright?’ a voice called out to her from somewhere further into the shop.
She lifted her head in a slow nod as she felt something disintegrate inside her.
Now she understood what she needed to do.
Turning quickly around she grabbed a basket and began to fill it.
Guy had destroyed her. She didn’t have to think anymore.
Juliet lifted the cheap plastic bottle to her lips, taking another much needed swig of vodka and ignoring the carton of tropical juice unopened on the bedside table.
The first half of the cheap translucent liquid had burnt her throat raw, no doubt doing the same to her insides. Not that it mattered now.
At least the second half seemed to be slipping down a little easier, she thought as she flopped her body onto the bed.
Pulling the rim of the bottle from her lips, she fumbled with the volume remote, forcing the stereo to vibrate against the shelves as their music blared out into the messy bedroom still filled with his belongings.
The bittersweet tunes causing a mixture of comfort and crushing sadness to wrap itself around her.
Propping the vodka bottle against his pillow, Juliet ripped the lid from the chunky cardboard box, her swollen eyes gazing at the contents spilling onto the bed, as if it had the power to save her.
She pressed her fingers against the protective foil packets, popping the white tablets, one by one, onto the bedcover until all the packets contents had been emptied and a tiny mountain had formed before her.
Any minute now, she told herself as a flood of fresh wet tears sprung from her eyes. The salty solution burning like the vodka against the sore rims of her eyes. How could there be more tears?
He had gone. Leaving behind an eerie devastation that haunted her day and night. As if he’d ripped out a part of her and taken it with him.
She had nothing left.
She had been living under a thick veil of grief and disbelief, but everything was clear now, she realised, thinking back to the lightning bolt of horror that had struck her only a few hours earlier.
Her watery gaze fixed onto the mound of tablets; the smudged newspaper now a blur in the corner of her eye. Their glossy faces grinning at her, mocking her existence.
Any minute now, she told herself again, her thoughts almost lost behind the blaring noise of the stereo.
She let her head fall against the bed; its cool fabric soothing the heat from her puffy face.
What was she supposed to do now?
She forced another mouthful of vodka down her throat, wishing the drink would numb the pain, but not even the dizzying hit of drunkenness could lessen the reality of what she’d lost.
Juliet reached a shaking hand towards the tablets, brushing the tips of her fingers against the powdery shells. She felt her heart quicken with anticipation and fear.
‘Any second now,’ she mumbled to herself, holding a single pill in one hand and the almost empty bottle of vodka in the other.
If only she could undo the past. Rewind the last two weeks and return to the park. She wouldn’t let him leave again, no matter what. But there could be no going back. Guy had moved on, deleting her completely from his life as if their love had never existed, as if she had never existed.
Soon she wouldn’t, she thought, placing a single pill on her tongue and washing it down with another swill of fiery liquid.
Her heart thundered in her ears, muffling the noise of the stereo.
She had started now. There could be no going back. She had nothing to live for.
Juliet reached out to the mountain of tablets, grabbing a handful in her fist.
If only she could undo the past, she thought again. If only they had never met. If only she’d ignored the exotic pull she’d felt from that first day. She could have ignored her feelings; ignored the dishevelled boy offering to help her and carried on walking. Maybe then she would have spent her time at university studying and having fun with friends, instead of wrapped in the bittersweet bubble they had made for themselves.
The Reluctant Celebrity Page 7