by Talli Roland
She wandered across the piazza at Covent Garden, then down to Leicester Square and through the crowds to Piccadilly. Then, as if on automatic pilot, she found herself on Lexington Street and in front of – she blinked – Andrew Edmonds, the cosy restaurant where she’d dined with Alex the night before her mother had died. Peering through the window, she could see nothing had changed: the close tables flickered with candles and diners packed the tiny space.
Memories pressed against her brain, demanding entry, and tonight Willow didn’t have the energy to try to block them out.
It had been a regular weeknight, and Willow was finishing up her shift at Liberty’s when Alex appeared, cradling a bottle of champagne. He’d laughingly swung her around the shop, pulled her in for a kiss, then popped the cork and poured everyone in the shop a glass – customers included.
‘What’s the occasion?’ Willow had asked as the bubbles tickled the back of her throat.
‘I’ve been made a junior partner at the firm!’ Alex took a swig of champagne, beaming from every pore.
‘That’s brilliant! Congratulations.’ Willow squeezed his waist. She knew how much he wanted this; how hard he’d worked toward it. It was a real step up.
‘So I’ve booked a celebratory dinner tonight, just you and me,’ he said, grinning down at her. ‘Think you can bunk off early?’
Willow glanced over at Joanne, who nodded and smiled. ‘Go on! Give me enough champagne, and I’ll agree to anything.’
The two of them had walked the short distance to the restaurant, Alex excitedly chattering about all the new projects he’d work on now. They’d lingered over dinner until the sky darkened and the restaurant felt like a bubble, where anything was possible and London was theirs. Alex had gripped her hand as they’d gone back to his flat to celebrate some more.
And then, the next morning just as the sun was rising, her father had called with the news that her mum was gone. And everything had changed.
Tears spilled down Willow’s cheeks and a man standing in the doorway holding a menu backed away hastily.
‘Everything okay, love?’ he asked, pretending not to notice as she wiped her face. Thank God she’d taken off all the make-up. Willow forced herself to look away from the window and continue up the street, but it wasn’t as easy to move away from her glimpse into the past. Back then, everything had seemed shiny and new. Now, life felt dull and flat, and all the events of the past few weeks had only weighed her down more.
She’d done the right thing, going back home for her father. Never in a million years would she regret that decision. And it had seemed like the right thing – the only thing – taking on Marilyn to sort out the shop. It might have been a good solution for the business, but she was starting to hate it. No, scratch that, she did hate it.
But the shop now had nine-thousand pounds, right? When this week was finished, how much would she have made? Could it top a thousand pounds, giving her enough to pay off the whole debt? Dad could relax as long as he wanted, and she . . . well, maybe now it was time to start finding a way back to her hopes and dreams. Her London life was in the past, and it was too late for her and Alex. The future wouldn’t be anywhere nearly as lucrative as if she’d stuck with Marilyn. But none of that mattered. It would be as Willow, with the things that were important to her. All she had to do was figure out how much she’d have by the end of the week, and her life could begin again.
But how she could find that out? Willow ducked around a horde of drunk rugby players, mind racing. Jay always had venue managers sign something before each performance; she’d seen him tuck the document away into a thick manila folder. Those papers must have her fee on there. Maybe that folder was somewhere in their suite?
Rushing down the pavement back toward the hotel, she pictured people’s reactions when she told them the new Marilyn was no more. Simpson would be disappointed, for sure – and the ladies of Better Belcherton, who’d miss the banana loaf profits. The Marilyn festival wouldn’t happen, but Jay had mentioned something about insurance money. And Jay, well . . . Willow shook her head, imagining his sad, brown eyes. Would he be upset because of the money he’d miss out on, or because he’d miss spending as much time with her? The way he’d been acting lately, she’d almost think it was the money.
But she’d deal with that when it happened, she told herself, hurrying along the crowded street. First things first: make sure the debt could be paid.
Her maths weren’t great but she knew this much: any sum greater than one-thousand pounds equalled no more Marilyn.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
BACK IN THE SUITE of rooms at The Savoy, Willow wondered where to begin searching for the folder. Slowly and methodically, she did a round of the large sitting room. Yanking open every drawer, her heart dropped each time it was empty.
She wandered into the bedroom, her gaze falling on the bedside table. Maybe in there? Holding her breath, she eased open the drawer.
Oh, good, she’d found it. And there was her old mobile, too! Setting the phone on the bed, Willow pulled out the messy file of papers and sat down, flipping through random receipts. Hang on – was that her contract with Jay? Suddenly, she realised he’d never actually given her a copy. Jay had said it was standard, but Willow didn’t know what a standard agency contract entailed. She’d take a quick peek now, just to see if there was anything in there to do with contract termination.
Flipping through the pages of boring legal stuff, a sentence leaped out at her as if it was printed in fiery red.
The client agrees to this contract for a period of ten years, and to perform and undertake all reasonable engagements and requests for said period. Early termination will result in a financial penalty in the amount of five-hundred thousand pounds, or the equivalent of earnings lost (based on a yearly projected average), whichever is higher.
What?
Willow blinked. That couldn’t mean what she thought – she must have read it wrong. Forcing herself to breathe, she scanned the words again. But there was no doubt: she was locked into being Marilyn for the next ten years, or she’d take a hit she knew she couldn’t afford.
God. Ten years? Her head throbbed, breath coming in fast pants. Anger curled inside and she got to her feet, wanting to lash out at something, anything. How could she have missed such a critical point? And how could Jay have done this to her?
Her mind flashed back to that day at the pub. She’d been so eager to sign the contract after spotting the Marilyn souvenirs in the shop – and Jay had seemed so trustworthy – that even though all the contract details weren’t crystal clear, she’d scrawled her name. He wouldn’t do anything to hurt me, she’d thought. They were both on the same page.
Surely everything hadn’t been an act? The way he’d looked into her eyes . . . held her hand . . . slept with her! Could someone really be so low? Her stomach shifted uncomfortably and Willow rushed into the loo, reaching the side of the shiny porcelain toilet just in time.
She crouched over, beads of sweat breaking out on her brow, and heaved again. Shaking with fury and disgust, she realised the only thing Jay had cared about was profiting off her. Pieces slid into place as she recalled his harsh words back at the festival when she’d nearly fainted; how he’d almost driven her into the ground this week ‘building the brand’. She’d known for a while something was wrong between them, but it had been easier to ignore it than deal with the doubts creeping in.
Images of her parading around the world as Marilyn, day after day and night after night, ran through her head and she heaved again, even though nothing remained. She couldn’t do that. She just couldn’t!
The noise of a key card being inserted into the door made her jump. Rushing into the bedroom, she grabbed the phone and the contract off the bed and shoved them into her pocket. Then she jammed the folder back in the drawer, slamming it closed just as Jay came inside. Until she figured out what to do, it was better if he didn’t know what she’d found.
‘Hey, baby,’ Jay said
, pulling off his tie and hanging his suit jacket in the closet. Willow pushed down the anger and disgust and plastered a smile on her face, even though she felt like spewing all over his pristine blazer. Shame she had nothing left inside.
‘You’re looking kind of rough. Everything okay? And why are you wearing that?’ Jay gestured toward her loose jeans and T-shirt, then disappeared into the en suite. Willow trudged out to the lounge, trying to act normally despite every fibre throbbing with rage. A few minutes later, she heard Jay’s heavy snores.
Thank God he was asleep. And thank God he hadn’t tried to sleep with her. She’d have wiped the charming smile off his fake face if he had. What was that word Paula had used to describe him? Horndog.
Paula! If Jay had sunk as low as sleeping with Willow to keep her on side, it was a definite possibility Paula had been telling the truth. Willow winced, remembering her angry words. Well, she didn’t need to wait until Belcherton to make up with her friend – she’d ring right this second. Fingers crossed Paula would be able to forgive her.
Taking the mobile from her pocket, Willow cocked her ears to make sure Jay was still snoring. Then she crept back over to the loo, made herself comfortable on the toilet seat, and dialled her best friend.
One ring.
Two rings.
Please answer, Willow chanted in her head. Please! If ever there was a time she needed her friend, it was now.
‘Hello?’ Paula’s voice was sleepy.
Thank God. ‘Paula! It’s me.’
‘Oh, hi.’ Paula’s tone changed abruptly and Willow swallowed hard, wanting to kick herself for trusting Jay over her friend.
‘Look, Paula, I’m so sorry,’ Willow said quickly. ‘I shouldn’t have doubted you. You were right, Jay’s a total scumbag.’
‘Oh, yeah? What, did you catch him shagging someone else?’
Willow shuddered at the thought, but she had to admit that right now, nothing would surprise her. ‘You’re not going to believe this, but Jay has me locked into a ten-year contract doing this Marilyn thing.’
There was a silence. ‘What? What do you mean, a ten-year contract?’ Paula asked finally.
Willow explained the disastrous details of the document she’d signed, nausea rising again at the thought of spending a decade as Marilyn. ‘I know I should have read the contract more carefully,’ she said, before Paula could chastise her. ‘But I didn’t have any reason not to trust Jay at the time, you know?’
‘I know.’ Paula’s tone was sympathetic, and tears pushed at Willow’s eyes. How she wished she was home right now with her friend, instead of in a hotel loo in London. ‘Are you all right? I mean, I know you snogged him, but you and Jay weren’t together, were you?’ Paula’s voice was lower than its usual boisterous volume and Willow could tell she was still being somewhat cautious.
‘Well . . .’ Humiliation mixed with fury shot through her as Willow recalled how Jay had played her. ‘I thought we were.’
‘God, if I ever see him again, I’ll snip his balls. So what are you going to do now?’ Paula asked.
Willow clutched the phone, wondering how her friend would react to the news that she was done with the whole Marilyn thing. Would Paula try to convince her to stay the course; remind her how dull life in Belcherton had been, anyway? Well, whatever she said, Willow knew what was right for her. And it wasn’t being Marilyn.
‘I don’t want to do this anymore – to be someone else. I need to get back to me.’ The words tumbled out and Willow braced herself for Paula’s rebuttal.
But all her friend said was: ‘I get it, Wills. After seeing everything you dealt with over the past few weeks, I can’t say I blame you. Anyway, I’ve missed you.’ Her voice was so warm it was like a hug, and tears dripped down Willow’s cheeks.
‘Me too.’ She drew in a ragged breath and the two were silent for a second. ‘So, I really need your help,’ Willow said, wiping her eyes. ‘Please tell me you have some idea how I might get out of the contract?’ She prayed her clever friend might be able to think of a way around it. If anyone could, it would be Paula.
‘Wills, I’m sorry,’ Paula said softly. ‘But you probably need a lawyer to look it over; see if there are any loopholes. Find someone who specialises in showbiz law, or whatever it’s called. Do you know anyone in London who could help you track down a reputable lawyer? You don’t want to run into someone dodgy again.’
Willow’s mind raced, but she could only think of one person. ‘Just Alex.’ God, she wished she’d kept in contact with some other friends here, but they’d all drifted away.
‘Why don’t you get in touch? You guys are friends now, right?’
Willow dropped her head and stared at the marble floor, heart sinking as she remembered Alex’s face when Jay kissed her, and his abrupt departure from the village. ‘I don’t really know,’ she sighed.
‘Well, you’ve got to start somewhere,’ Paula said in a practical voice. ‘And I reckon in London, Alex is the best place to begin.’
*
Betts wiped her forehead and tried to get comfortable on the cracked plastic chair by her daughter’s bed. Why didn’t hospitals ever have comfortable seating? The past three days had been absolute hell, and Betts was near collapse.
She’d headed over to Lucy’s house that first night back in Georgia, irritated and tired. The only thing keeping her going was the thought of calling Dickie in the morning and saying just how much she loved him. But when Lucy had fainted in pain, Betts had forgotten everything in Belcherton. In severe agony, her daughter was admitted to hospital for an ultra-sound then wheeled straight into surgery. After an operation to remove her appendix, Lucy was fighting some kind of infection with the surgical incision. Now her temperature was down and thanks to the course of antibiotics that had kept her mostly knocked out, she seemed to be okay. It was the first time Betts had been able to actually breathe – or think about Dickie.
Now that a few days had passed, though, Betts was starting to wonder if there really could be a future for them. She didn’t even know if Dickie wanted a committed relationship, for goodness’ sake – or one with her. Maybe she’d just been a holiday fling; someone to pass the time with, safe in the knowledge she’d go away eventually. And now that she was gone, well . . . perhaps it was best to leave it?
Betts shook her head as Lucy’s chest rose and fell under the white of the hospital sheet. This was her life; here and now. She might have thought it could change – goodness, she’d even considered going out for a job – but what was the point? Maybe Gord was right. Maybe she was just a big fat dreamer after all.
CHAPTER TWENTY
THE SUN WAS SHINING when Willow awoke on the sofa where she’d fallen asleep last night. Looking at her watch, she noticed it was almost seven-thirty, and judging by the snores coming from the bedroom, Jay was still sound asleep.
She’d tossed and turned all night, wondering if she really should go see Alex and ask for his help. She knew he would oblige – he was that kind of man – but she couldn’t bear to think of the pitying look in his eyes after hearing what she’d got herself into. Sometime around four, Willow decided to bite the bullet. Yes, she’d made mistakes, but she had to be strong now if she wanted to move on.
Willow crept into the bedroom, eased open the wardrobe, and selected one of the more conservative Marilyn outfits she could find: a pencil skirt, tailored jacket, and a white shirt with large lapels. Hurriedly, she changed, cursing as she nearly rammed a toe through her stockings. She did her heavy make-up in a flash, teased her platinum curls so they floated around her shoulders like a halo, and jammed her feet into some pumps.
Then she shoved her butt cushion into a bag for later, grabbed the contract, and scrawled a note to Jay, saying she’d meet him in time for their first engagement of the day: a ten o’clock brunch at the BAFTA headquarters on Piccadilly. If everything went to plan, she should get to Alex’s firm on Fenchurch Street by half eight, leaving plenty of time to scoot over to Piccadilly. O
f course, she’d need to endure an endless number of questions from Jay, but it wasn’t like he was going to drop her, was it? She’d love to just ditch the gig, but that would definitely raise Jay’s suspicions. The less he thought she knew, the better. Willow shook her head as bitterness twisted her stomach. She still couldn’t believe he’d faked that caring facade.
Willow took one last look in the mirror before opening the door. Now that she desperately wanted to ditch Marilyn, everything about her reflection just felt wrong, as if she’d poked her head through one of those wooden cut-outs at a funfair. God knows she’d love to meet Alex as Willow, but time didn’t allow for her to come back to the hotel and change.
Despite her conservative outfit, heads still turned as she walked quickly down the Strand toward the Tube. A cab would have been faster, but Jay had only given her a twenty-pound note for the week. She’d been about to grab her wallet before leaving Belcherton when he’d told her not to bother, saying he’d be with her and could pay for everything. It was a great way to keep her under his control, she now realised.
The Tube rattled into Monument station and Willow got off, picking up pace as she followed the familiar route to Alex’s office. Although it had been more common for him to meet her at work before they’d head out to dinner in nearby Carnaby Street, she’d come to a few champagne receptions here, and really enjoyed them. Her face reddened as she remembered how she’d first met Claire at one such gathering. Willow always loved to examine the floral arrangements, forever on the look out for new techniques. She’d been peering closely at an elaborate bamboo-shoot and hydrangea creation when Claire had approached.