by Talli Roland
Suddenly an idea came to mind: the ultimate scheme to end any event. It was brilliant. Simply brilliant. And it meant that man wouldn’t get a penny from this tawdry festival.
Why hadn’t she thought of it sooner?
*
Stabbing pains shot through her arm from waving and the elephant’s pong was making her lightheaded, but Willow kept a smile nailed to her face as the pink animal trudged down the high street.
Finally, the elephant reached the festival site and sank down so Willow could disembark. Acutely aware of the crowd watching her every move, she tried to slide off gracefully, taking a coat of gooey paint along with her. Then Jay appeared, quickly ushering her through security and past the barriers into the vacant field. Finally, she let herself breathe.
‘That was crazy!’ She smiled up at Jay, but he was busy scanning a crumpled sheet of paper.
‘You’re late. Come meet Dean. Then we need to redo your hair and make-up’ – he eyed the smeared costume and sweaty brow – ‘and get you two into sound check. He’s waiting.’
‘Okay.’ Willow tried to ignore Jay’s abrupt tone. He was in full-on agent mode; she couldn’t expect him to be all lovey-dovey.
She followed him across the grass toward the giant stage, quickening her pace to keep up. They hurried around the back and entered a huge marquee divided into different compartments and dressing rooms. Jay stopped outside a curtain hung with a sparkly star and the words ‘Dean Denner’ done up in glitter.
‘He travels with his own sign,’ Jay whispered. ‘We’ll get you one, too.’
Willow thought the idea pathetic, but she smiled and nodded.
‘Dean?’ Jay called in a placatory tone she hadn’t heard from him before. ‘Willow’s here to meet you.’
Willow held her breath as she waited for Dean to appear, wondering what he’d look like. Well, obviously he’d resemble JFK, but how much? She had to admit, she was nervous about working with a big star. What if he thought she was absolute rubbish?
The curtains parted and a tangerine man – with thick, side-parted hair and a face plastered with even more foundation than hers – appeared. Despite his orange tint, he was the spitting image of the former American president.
‘Here, hold this.’ Dean shoved a bow tie at Willow then turned back toward the mirror, dabbing more foundation onto his pancaked face.
‘Dean, this is Willow.’ Jay dragged her into the small space, which reeked of an unpleasant mixture of cologne and make-up.
Dean didn’t even look up from pinching a gigantic spot on his chin. ‘Bloody thing,’ he muttered. He swung around to face Jay. ‘Where’s that make-up artist you promised me? First the helicopter is late – and by the way, Cava is not champagne – and then there’s no one here to help me get ready. What kind of second-rate festival is this?’
Willow tried to hide her shock at Dean’s strong Essex accent, so at odds with his appearance.
‘I’m very sorry,’ Jay said in an anxious, almost whiny tone that made Willow jerk toward him in surprise. ‘I’ll get on it right away. I’ll just leave you two to get acquainted and go find Charlie.’ He disappeared between the curtains.
‘But Jay, wait . . .’ No way did she want to be left alone with this man, but Jay had already rushed off.
‘So, um,’ she began, ‘I guess we’re going to sing the Happy Birthday song together?’ God, what a dumb thing to say. Of course they were going to sing the Happy Birthday song together. ‘Er, how long have you been doing this?’
Dean snorted. ‘Look, Marilyn, most of us in the business have worked hard to get to where we are today. I started out performing on a bloody cruise ship in China! You wouldn’t believe it, but people there adore JFK.’ He shook his head. ‘There are millions of Marilyn Monroe impersonators putting in their time. Then you waltz in and become famous overnight – without paying your dues.’ His tone was bitter.
‘I’m sorry.’ Don’t apologise! Willow straightened her spine. ‘But I can’t control what’s popular on YouTube, you know. And if the same thing happened to you, I’m sure you would have jumped at the chance.’ Anyway, it wasn’t like she was doing this for fun. She was doing it for Dad.
As she watched Dean preen in the mirror, she realised it wasn’t so much that he looked exactly like JFK. It was more that he’d captured the President’s essence perfectly, transforming himself into the great man regardless of his exterior.
‘What’s it like, working as an impersonator full-time, for so many years?’ she asked. ‘I mean, do you start to lose . . . you?’ It was something she’d been wondering since shedding the Marilyn attire and wandering up to the site in her own clothes. She’d felt so much more like Willow, and that had faded the second she’d shoved herself and her fake booty back into the costume. How would she feel after spending a few months as Marilyn? Would she even remember how to be herself?
Dean applied more gel to his already stiff hair and smiled at himself in the mirror. ‘I’ve been doing this for fifteen years. And there are some days I actually forget I’m not JFK, that’s how talented I am.’
God. Willow couldn’t even imagine that.
‘But listen, that’s a good thing,’ Dean continued. ‘Why would I want to remember who I was before this? A pudgy bloke from Essex, with nothing. As JFK, people respect me.’ He met her eyes in the mirror. ‘And look at you. No offence, honey, but you’re living in this dump in the country, doing nothing. Then you become a sensation, and your life is changed. Why would you want to be plain old whatever-your-name-is, when you can have people worshipping you as Marilyn?’
Plain old whatever-your-name-is? Sure, she hadn’t led the most exciting life by showbiz standards, but it had been everything she’d wanted: flowers, a wonderful man, a budding career . . .
‘I’m so sorry I’m late. Took me ages to get down the high street, there’s so many people.’ A frantic Charlie Tatty appeared from behind the curtain, wringing his hands. ‘You’re Dean Denner. Charlie Tatty, hair and make-up. It’s an absolute honour to meet you.’
As Dean ordered Charlie around with all the subtlety of a machine gun, Willow backed out of the small cubicle and wandered down the corridor, trying to ignore the rising nausea as the concert loomed nearer.
‘Ah, there you are.’ Jay slung an arm around her waist and Willow felt herself relax a bit. ‘Your dressing room is just down here. Scrub off that pink stuff and put on this’ – he shoved a white satin dress at her – ‘and Charlie will fix your hair and make-up once he’s finished with Dean. We’ve got about ten minutes until the sound check.’
Willow nodded as Jay bustled off, then turned to make her way to the dressing room. Inside the cubicle, she stared at her reflection in the mirror. It had only been a couple weeks, but it was hard to remember what she looked like with dark hair. And with her curvy new figure, the days when she’d been a beanpole seemed ages ago.
Why the hell would you want to be plain old Willow? Because that was her, not some blonde, over-made-up film icon who wasn’t even living. She’d much rather be Willow than Marilyn any day! Sighing, she recalled the conversation with her father last week, when he’d said how proud Mum had been of her flower career. That was who she wanted to be again – the Willow who felt alive and happy.
All this isn’t forever, she reminded herself as she wiped off the pink paint and pulled on the satin dress. Just get the money you need, and then you can think about the future.
‘Sound check.’ Jay appeared, motioning her forward through the corridors of the backstage area and onto the stage. Willow stood still for a minute, taking in the vast empty field splaying out before her. What would this be like when it was filled with the thousands of screaming fans she’d seen lining the streets and the motorway beyond? Her heart started beating a million miles a minute and the edges of her vision went black.
‘Willow. Willow!’ Jay grabbed her shoulders and shook her. ‘We’ve got a sound check to do, and then you have to give the performance of a lifet
ime. Don’t even dream of fucking it up for me.’
What? She turned toward him in surprise, his harsh tone snapping her back to reality.
‘I mean for you, of course,’ Jay said in a softer voice. ‘Sorry to sound so intense, but I’ve found from experience it’s what people need when they get nervous.’ He shoved a bottle of water at her. ‘Drink this down. You’re probably just dehydrated. I know you’ll be fine.’
Willow gulped a few mouthfuls, feeling slightly better once the cool liquid was inside her. Thank God Jay had known what would get her back on track – she was lucky to have such an experienced agent.
‘Okay?’ he asked.
She nodded.
‘Right.’ Jay motioned to a technician at the side of the stage. ‘Can we get this show on the road?’
The techie nodded. ‘Ready when you are.’
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
THANK GOODNESS SHE’D HAD such a big breakfast this morning, Betts thought. Already it was five p.m. and the way she’d been run off her feet, she’d needed all those calories.
Betts glanced at her watch. Just over an hour before they’d open the gates to the festival site. She’d do a final run-around to make sure all the vendors were in place. Then, she planned to plonk down her lawn-chair beside Dickie’s and enjoy the night, using the fifty-pound stipend she’d earned from this gig to treat her man to a few pints and sausages. It was all going like clockwork so far, and Betts was proud of everything she’d done in such a short time. Fingers crossed the rest of the festival would go off the same.
From her location just inside the main gate, she could see waves of people streaming down the high street toward the site. It was almost impossible to believe how many had turned out for this, despite having the estimated numbers ahead of time. She’d met a fan today who’d even travelled in the back of a truck from Azerbaijan – wherever the heck that was – just to make it! Although she’d always considered herself a staunch Marilyn fan, Betts was starting to think it was a tiny bit sad people worshipped someone dead that much. Now that she had Dickie, she had to admit a lot could be said for spending time with real people.
Betts smiled as she thought of dear Dickie. Who knew what the future held, but she loved being with him and–
‘Who’s in charge here?’ A swarthy police officer interrupted her thoughts.
Betts cast a look around, but Simpson was nowhere to be found and Jay was up at the stage. ‘You can talk to me, if you like,’ she said, flapping her blouse up and down to get some air. ‘Whew, hot today, isn’t it?’
‘I’ve had a report there’s an illegal worker employed on festival staff,’ the man said, flashing his badge at her.
Betts laughed. ‘Illegal worker? No way! Everyone on staff is from the village. Well, except me, of course. I’ve come all the way from Georgia!’ She smiled proudly, expecting an admiring response at how far she’d travelled.
But the man only narrowed his eyes, and the circle of officers accompanying him closed in even tighter. ‘Really. You wouldn’t happen to be’ – he looked down at his pad – ‘Betts Johnson, would you?’
Betts puffed herself up proudly. Already people were hearing what a good job she was doing! ‘I sure am.’ She stuck out a hand. ‘Nice to meet you.’
‘And what exactly is the purpose of your visit to the United Kingdom?’ the man asked, ignoring her hand.
Betts let it drop to her side. Sometimes Brits didn’t know what to do with her American friendliness, and this guy was one of them. ‘To see Marilyn, of course.’
‘Right, right.’ The man scribbled down that information in his notebook. Gosh, they were thorough here, weren’t they?
‘And you are employed by the Festival?’ he asked.
Betts nodded. ‘Yes. I’m in charge of hospitality.’
‘And you’re receiving payment in exchange for your work?’
‘Well, not much for the amount of work I’ve been doing,’ she huffed. ‘If I’d known how much was involved, I would have held out for more!’ She grinned and waited for him to smile back, but instead he was reaching into his pocket . . . and snapping handcuffs on her wrists! What on earth?
‘Betts Johnson, I’m arresting you for working without a valid visa in the United Kingdom,’ the man said, trying to close the cuff around her plump wrist. ‘You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defense if you do not mention, when questioned, something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.’
‘Valid visa!’ Betts struggled against the man. ‘But I’m here on a holiday.’
‘Exactly,’ the man responded. ‘And if you’re here on a holiday, you’re not supposed to be working. In accordance with the UK Immigration law, you will be removed back to your country of origin immediately.’
‘Removed back to my country of origin?’ Betts squealed. ‘I can’t go home! I have a festival to run!’ And Dickie. The thought clawed at her heart and she almost went limp at the pain accompanying it. Dickie.
The immigration officer rolled his eyes. ‘Not anymore, you don’t. Now, do you have your passport on your person?’
‘On my person? No, no, it’s back at home.’ Her heart sank as she realised she’d be leaving that home very soon. ‘But wait, can’t you give me a few more days? You know, to say goodbye to people and wrap up loose ends. I promise I won’t go anywhere.’
The man gave a short, barking laugh. ‘Yeah, right. The number of times we hear that. Come on. Let’s go get your passport and then you’ll be on the next flight back to America. Now, are you going to make this easy and tell us where you’re staying, or do I have to make a scene here?’
‘Heavens, no. It’s just down the street.’ Betts pointed in the direction. ‘But what’s going to happen with the festival? It won’t be cancelled, will it?’ she asked as the man dragged her away, thankfully draping his jacket over her cuffs so people wouldn’t see them. She couldn’t bear it if all her hard work went down the drain because of some silly visa. Who knew you needed one to work in the UK? And all for a piddly fifty pounds!
‘No,’ the man said. ‘But whoever’s in charge will be served a fine, and we’ll have to make sure there aren’t any other illegal workers involved.’
Betts let out her breath. Phew, at least the show would go on. ‘Here we are,’ she said, relaxing slightly as they stopped in front of the house. Dickie wouldn’t have left for the festival just yet. He could explain she’d never meant to do anything wrong; she simply hadn’t realised the need for some special bit of paper. They couldn’t shove her out of country just like that, could they?
‘Dickie!’ Betts opened the door.
The house was silent and still.
‘Dickie!’ Betts’s heart started beating fast and she could feel damp patches spreading under her blouse. He had to be here. He had to!
‘Madam, please get your passport.’ The immigration officer was tapping his foot, looking bored. He eyed the antiques with distaste.
‘But I have to wait until Dickie comes home. I can’t just leave without saying goodbye!’ Betts’s breath was coming now in fast gasps, her chest rising and falling.
‘You should have thought of that before you decided to break the law,’ the man said officiously. ‘Now, come on. Find the passport, or I’ll have to search the premises.’
Betts pictured Dickie’s lovingly procured artefacts scattered across the floor, and swallowed hard. ‘Okay.’ She went slowly up the stairs, hoping upon hope Dickie would burst through the door at any moment. Goodness knows where he was right now. Unable to cope with the influx of visitors for the festival, he’d shut the shop and taken the weekend off – the first time in years, apparently – and said he was looking forward to spending it together. That wouldn’t happen now.
Betts trudged to her bedroom, the bed still neatly made since she’d spent last night in Dickie’s room. Memories of their tender evening flooded into her head, and she put a hand to her heart. Gosh, she wanted more tim
es like that.
Hastily throwing as many clothes as possible into her case, she grabbed her passport from the bedside table and jammed it into her purse. Her beautiful vacation had come to this – leaving the country in disgrace. Surely she’d be able to call Dickie from the police station? They wouldn’t keep her locked up like some criminal, would they? She had to see him!
‘You have one minute,’ the immigration officer’s voice boomed from downstairs.
Betts took a final look around the room then grabbed a pen and notepad from her purse. She’d write a quick note to say she’d had to go home, just in case Dickie noticed all her things were missing before she had the chance to call and fill him in. After bumping down the stairs with her bags, she ducked into the kitchen and propped the note where Dickie was sure to find it: right next to Krusty’s feed.
‘Goodbye, Krusty,’ Betts called softly out the window. He croaked in response and tears filled her eyes, then she turned to go.
*
Cissy watched as the gates opened and thousands upon thousands of people swarmed onto the festival site. In just ten minutes, the empty field was teeming with a giant, moving mass of Marilyn fans. Cissy sniffed – she could have been that popular, too, if she’d been able to make it to America. Imagine, all these people coming to see her . . .
She pulled herself back to reality with steely determination. Timing was critical to ensure maximum disruption and she needed to keep a close eye on things. Thank God she’d thought up a solid plan; she’d watched the swarm of officers take away that Betts Johnson, and the festival was still going ahead like nothing had happened. That had certainly not been one of her brighter ideas. A small shard of guilt stabbed at her, but Cissy pushed it away. If the woman had been working illegally, then she deserved to be kicked out. British jobs for British workers and all that!