Celebrity Bride (10 page)

'My lords, ladies and gentlemen,' says a tall, crooked man sporting immaculate white gloves. If we were playing Cluedo, he'd be the one that did it. Do you know the look I mean? He was always either going to be a butler, an elderly vicar or an actor in a ghost film. He looks like the sort of guy who's never been young, with shifty, beady eyes and the deepest, most resonant voice I've ever heard. 'May I give you your host, Mr Rufus George.' His voice is deeper than you'd imagine it would be for such a frail man. It reminds me of Barry White.

Rufus smiles, radiating that charm and dignity that he wears so lightly for most of the time but somehow springs from him on these formal occasions, making him irresistible to the eye, impossible not to stare at. I notice that Olivia feels the same way; she's looking up at him with those saucer-like blue eyes, her head tilted to one side. I try desperately to catch her eye but it's no use.

Rufus holds back the tails of his jacket as he rises to his feet and scans the room to make sure everyone's looking at him. He thanks everyone for coming in that way of his that makes you feel like he's talking straight to you, and that everyone else in the room has melted away. 'Thank
you
for coming,' he says. I find myself drifting along on the sound of his voice.

'It's been a most incredible few months for me,' he is saying. 'Because I have met the woman of my dreams; a girl whose very presence makes the world a better place. I'm not given to making grand, romantic statements, as you all know, but that was before Kelly.'

Blimey. How weird is this? He seems to like me after all. It's normally a struggle to get boyfriends to hold my hand in public, let alone sit and watch as they announce in such elegant style, in front of their friends, that they really like me.

'Sweetheart, I love you more than I've ever loved anyone. You mean the world to me. I can't begin to explain to you how much better my life has become since you came galloping into it, knocking everything sideways, making everything better. I love you. Thank you for making me so happy.'

Everyone cheers and claps and smiles lovingly at me. Me? I clap, too, smiling through the confusion, letting the delight of his words wash over me and surround me, protecting me from the fear I felt just a few minutes previously. He loves me; that's all that matters. Elody must be wrong; he's not going to go off with anyone else. Suddenly, the world looks bright again and people are smiling again.

'I love you too,' I mouth over to Rufus, but I can't catch his eye, and the lipstick words float in the air between us, eventually fluttering down and landing somewhere on the table, before reaching him.

Olivia comes over and kisses me on the cheek, introducing herself. 'That was nice, wasn't it?' she says, looking over at Rufus.

I look at her and smile. 'It was wonderful.'

'He's a very good actor, isn't he?'

Rufus is quiet. He's been quiet since the party last night and, because of the way I'm made, I assume it is I who has upset him. He says not. He hugged me close and made love to me last night when I asked if everything was OK. We even rang his friend Deevers in New York so I could say 'hi' to him in my 'delicious' English accent (what is it with these Yanks and their obsession with the way we speak?). This morning, though, he just climbed out of bed and went to his study which is just off the bedroom. He's been in there ever since - flicking through pages and pages of notes. It's odd; I don't know what to do, and the girls are no bloody help to me. Mandy, Sophie and I have been involved in non-stop 'what's-going-on-in-his-head' texting since around 7 am. They say they aren't experts on the odd behaviours of millionaire, famous film stars and they can't leaf back through their mental catalogue of past problems with men and find one entitled: 'He buys me fabulous jewellery and is wonderful all the time. He gives the most glorious speech about me but now suddenly doesn't seem, deep down, to really care.'

'Are you sure this is not just because of what that woman Elody said?' asks Sophie. 'I mean, perhaps she's trying to put doubts into your mind.'

'Na,' I reply straight away. 'Elody's cool. She's trying to help. I just need to toughen up and stop being so gauche.'

'Gauche? What the fuck is gauche?' asks Sophie.

I decide to wander nonchalantly into Rufus's office in my rather revealing nightdress, unbuttoned at the front. If in doubt resorting to a man's primal urges is usually the best way forward.

'Hi,' he says, barely looking up.

'Hi.' I'm standing here with my breasts practically sticking out of this nightdress, I'm pouting, my hair is falling over my shoulders and the hemline barely covers my modesty. I need more than 'Hi'.

'Is everything all right?' I ask.

He looks up, sees me properly and comes over to me. 'God, you're gorgeous,' he says, slipping his hands into the front of the nightdress and reaching for my breasts. At last – a proper reaction.

It takes him about two minutes to get my nightdress off, as he backs me into the bedroom and onto the bed, grappling with his own clothes as he does so, his hands shaking with anticipation. It's quick, forceful and passionate sex; not like the love-making we usually do; nice though.

I lie in his arms afterwards, and know that I have to say something, or I'll regret it all day. 'I'm sorry about last night,' I mutter, my voice ringing with the fear I'm feeling inside. 'Elody thought it would be better if we swapped places. I didn't realise it would be a problem.'

'Did she?' he asks, looking at me quizzically. 'I thought you wanted to move to be near to me.'

'Well of course I wanted to move to be near you, but I . . .' How can I tell him that the fucking lord was being a sex pest so Elody offered to swap? 'Anyway, sorry if you didn't think it was the right thing to do.'

'Don't worry,' he says, in a way that makes me worry all the more, then he slides out of the sheets and wanders off towards the shower. He's not doing anything out of the ordinary; nothing that he wouldn't do any day of the week, but I find myself reading things into his every move after all I know from talking to Elody. I'm aware that it's my own insecurities screaming in my ears, but it's as if I can hear all these little voices saying, 'He doesn't like you any more . . . you've cocked up . . . it's all over.' I reach out for my phone; I need more reassurance from the girls. On the phone there are three texts, all from Elody.

'Hi, Kelly; hope you're OK. Just wanted to check you were feeling OK after last night. Lord Simpkins is a shit. Don't worry – he does that to everyone. I'll help you sort these weird people out!!'

Then, 'Hi, do you fancy coffee later? Call me if you do.'

Finally, 'Where are you? Text me back or I'm coming in there to check you're OK.'

Quite nice texts really.

'Would love to have a chat later. Did I upset people by changing seats last night? I hope not. Rufus seems a bit off with me.'

By return, she replies: 'You did NOTHING wrong. Lord Simpkins is an arse and you had to move out of the way. Please don't worry. Rufus is probably nervous about going off to LA on the promo tour. Trust me – everything will be fine.'

I'd kind of pushed the thought of Rufus going off to LA out of my mind. He hasn't mentioned it today.

'You know they were talking about that film last night – the James Bond movie?' I ask Rufus once he's out of the shower.

'Yep,' he says, rubbing the towel vigorously over his hair.

'When do you have to go to LA for that?'

'On Wednesday I think. I'll be promoting
Frozen Lives
at the same time so will be gone for a couple of weeks. I think it's Wednesday; I'm not sure. It might be worth you checking with Christine or ask Henry; she gives him an itinerary of when he's driving me.'

Why doesn't Christine just give Rufus an itinerary? This is a bloody odd world he lives in, when everything's been out-sourced, including day-to-day information and basic knowledge. Rufus really has no idea when he's going to LA or, indeed, what he's doing later in the day.

Christine, I should explain, is his trusty PA who scares the living daylights out of me. She's the only member of staff whom I haven't managed to form a friendly professional relationship with. I feel like she's looking down at me all the time. She's so bloody efficient and organised, I feel quite chaotic in her wake, as she strides through the house in that 'I know everything, the world is a more organised place for my involvement in it' way. She checks the pictures are hanging straight and that all the books are dusted and facing out, the right way up, in alphabetical order. If they're not, she screeches through the house for one of the cleaners. She told me when I first met her that she thinks her role in life is that every time she walks through the door, the room she's leaving should be tidier and more organised for her having been in it. I live in the fruits of those labours, with everything about me immaculate. It did make me laugh when she said that, though, because I'm completely the opposite. When I walk into a room, any room, I can guarantee it'll be in more of a mess when I leave than when I went into it. Sometimes when I leave for work in the morning, I leave such a mess behind me that the girls text me to ask whether I had a party of monkeys over for breakfast. I don't know how I do it. It seems to me that I walk into a room, sit down, have a cup of tea and walk out again, yet there's bloody carnage left behind.

'Can you ask Christine for me?' I say. I really don't want to have to call Miss Efficient and ask her, and, although Henry is lovely, it does seem bizarre to go outside and find the driver and ask him what your boyfriend, who sleeps next to you every night, is doing.

'Sure,' says Rufus dismissively, and once again I feel as if I've upset him.

It turns out that Rufus needs to fly to LA on Wednesday, leaving Heathrow at 10 pm.

'Will you be travelling alone?' I ask, because I need to know about this bloody Olivia. I have to know whether she's going with him.

'I don't get to travel anywhere on my own, sweetheart,' he says vaguely. 'There's an entourage accompanying me when I go to the toilet on these film trips.'

'Oh.' And that's it. I try several times to get him to run through who'll be there but it's impossible; he's locked in his study, reading and rereading a script, pacing round his room.

'Your name's Bond, James Bond,' I say, on one of the rare occasions when he emerges to get a glass of water, but he's not amused. He just smiles at me indulgently and asks me why I don't go and have a chat to Christine (because Christine is the world's most boring person, and she looks at me as if I'm a pointless little girl who's simply in everyone's way – that's why I don't have a chat to Christine). To be honest, I'm looking forward to getting back to work tomorrow. I just can't wait to see the girls and for things to feel normal again, and for me to feel as if I have some sort of role in life other than being the famous guy's girlfriend. Get me – I'm thinking roll on Monday morning so I can go to work – now that is definitely a first.

For now though, I'll head downstairs and chat to Julie and Pamela; they're always a good laugh.

EXCLUSIVE: FILM STAR'S NEW GIRLFRIEND
IN SHOCKING FOOTSIE SCANDAL WITH
LORD SIMPKINS

By Katie Joseph
Daily Post
Showbiz Correspondent

Kelly Monsoon, the girl who has stolen the heart of Rufus George, was involved in a huge fight with her new lover on Saturday night, as the world's leading film star found the beautiful brunette playing footsie with theatre impresario Lord James Simpkins.

Guests at George's multi-million pound mansion were shocked as Kelly, who used to live with two girls and is rumoured to have been a lesbian in her past, had to be MOVED away from the ageing theatre owner, and TAKEN to the other side of the table where she continued to eat in silence, under the watchful eye of her handsome boyfriend.

'Rufus was furious,' said a source close to the couple. 'I mean FURIOUS. He felt let down, angry and made a fool of. I don't know whether their relationship will ever be the same again.'

There are fears that Hollywood's most strident bachelor will be splitting from his latest love interest following the incident, which comes just a week after she moved in with him. It certainly does not look good for the couple. George is off to LA on Wednesday to meet the cast and writers of the new James Bond film. It is thought that the handsome, dark-haired actor is destined to be the latest 007, following the surprise retirement of Daniel Craig last year. Meanwhile his new love will be twiddling her thumbs in his mansion, hoping that George is not spending too much time with Cindy Kearney, the slim, blonde former Miss America, who is rumoured to be starring alongside him. Watch this space for more gossip as we bring you the inside track on Hollywood's most unlikely couple. At least Kelly can call on Lord Simpkins if she gets lonely when her boyfriend's away.

Do you know Kelly Monsoon? If you do, call the Showbiz desk now on 020 7765 0064, or email [email protected]. We will pay for information and your identity can be kept secret.

It's Rufus's turn to be angered by the now regular missive from Katie on the
Daily Post
. 'It's one thing making insinuations and getting things wrong, but this is a damn lie,' he shouts, clutching the offending article between his large fingers and pacing across the carpet. 'They're trying to make me look ridiculous.'

'I know!' I say. 'I was never a lesbian . . . not even a bit, not for a night, not ever. Why does she think I'm a lesbian? A few days ago I was going like a train with Greg the barman, now I'm a lesbian. I wish they'd make their minds up.'

'It's the footsie allegation I'm worried about,' he says pompously. 'Lord Simpkins is a very important man.'

'I know,' I say. 'He was being a bit inappropriate though. You know, he kept kind of rubbing his foot against my leg.'

'He what?' says Rufus, looking extremely cross. 'Why didn't you tell me?'

'Because we were in the middle of dinner and I was worried. I just kept pushing his leg off. I moved seats in the end because he wouldn't stop it.'

'So he did it more than once?'

'He did it all bloody evening.'

'Shit, Kell. I wish you'd told me instead of chatting to your mates about it. You must realise that everything you say will at some stage find its way into the papers.
Everything
. Understood?'

The implication is clear; he thinks I told my mates and they told the newspapers. As if Mandy and Sophie have a direct hotline to Fleet Street's leading showbiz reporters. It's bloody ridiculous.

'There's no way that Mandy or Sophie would talk to journalists,' I say. 'No way at all.'

But it seems that no one in the room is listening. Instead, Christine is summoned to hear the briefing on Footsie-gate, and lawyers are called. I go back to my room and lie on the bed. I don't know what to say or do. It's 7 am, and I'm barely awake. Rufus has never looked more furious. It does cross my mind, fleetingly, that he looked nowhere near this angry when they accused me of having a boob job yet, to my mind, that was a much more serious allegation than that I was playing footsie with someone, and actually the current accusation's true whereas the boob job thing is a whole pack of lies.

I hear male voices downstairs, and realise that the requested collection of London's finest lawyers has arrived. They settle down to work out how they are going to clear the precious name of Rufus George.

I decide to get ready for work; at least I've got loads of new clothes to wear. Elody, bless her, gave me lots of little suits and skirts and some fabulous tops that really suit my colouring. I'm just slipping into a fabulous silk kimono-style top when the inevitable call comes. 'Kelly, could Rufus see you in the drawing room,' says Christine. 'It's rather urgent, so do hurry.'

I trudge through the house and knock gently. It may be the house I'm living in but, not for the first time, it doesn't feel like my home. I always imagined that I would love a life in which staff tended to your every move, but I'm finding it really difficult to relax properly when the house is always jammed full of people. It's like I can never be myself in the house, or out of the house because the press are waiting to follow me – in short, being famous is about not being able to be yourself at all.

I have clearly broken some unwritten, unarticulated golden rule by being in the newspaper, even though there doesn't seem to be anything I could have done to prevent it happening. They write about me whatever I do.

'How has this happened?' asks a lawyer with very little hair. I feel quite sorry for him, as he stands next to Rufus. The lawyer's thin strands of ageing hair look all the more limp and hopeless for their proximity to my boyfriend's healthy, thick, dark-brown mop.

'I don't know,' I reply with absolute honesty.

'Which of your friends know that Lord Simpkins was at the party?' asks the portly lawyer.

'Well, my two closest friends – Mandy and Sophie – but you know them, Rufus – they wouldn't have spoken to journalists. No way.'

As I'm being quizzed about something I have no understanding of, and no power to control, Christine pops her head round the door. 'It's Lady Simpkins on the phone,' she says.

'That's all we need,' says Rufus, looking at me like it's my fault that some mad bint with a lecherous husband has decided to call.

I just don't know how this happened. I did nothing wrong and now I appear to have caused a major international scandal, embarrassed my boyfriend and disgraced the film company he's about to link up with. Not bad for a morning's work.

'How did they even know that Lord Simpkins was there?' asks a fat lawyer in a suit that fitted him several pies ago.

'I told them,' I say. 'They're my friends. I tell them everything.'

'Mmm,' comes the reply. 'Without wishing to lecture, Kelly, it may pay you to be more discerning in future. Maybe keep the details of dinner parties you attend with Rufus within his circle. People outside the circle will have a tendency to gossip.'

My friends, who I
know
would not say a word to the press, are being maligned at every turn, and I'm just feeling like the most foolish person on the planet.

'I have to go to work,' I say. I'm finding myself drawn to that office like a magnet; something I never expected in a million years. Normally the place drives me nuts because the management don't trust us to do anything of significance, so we end up feeling like we're hopeless and never going to progress. Take the proof-reading of the programmes and marketing material for the theatre. Me, Katy and Jenny are more than capable of doing that. In fact, once the programme's been proof-read, we normally spot mistakes in there and get them changed, but Sebastian won't allow any of us to actually do that job. It's driven the three of us mad, but right now none of that matters. I find myself longing to go back to work because it's one of the few things that feel real and part of my life rather than being an extension of his.

This must be how women who have babies feel . . . yes, they love the baby, yes, being a mother is great and I'm sure being a wife has its good points, but you must get to the stage where you long to be yourself, and to return to the world you inhabited before you came to be defined by your relationship to everyone else. I love being Rufus's girlfriend, but right now I'm looking forward to being Kelly Monsoon.

'Henry will drop you,' says Rufus, addressing Christine.

'No can do,' she replies, looking down at a set of notes that have been scribbled all over. You'd think she was preparing the country to go to war and managing the expectations of a nation. I feel like screaming, 'You're managing a diary, lady, not a military campaign.'

'Where's Henry?' asks Rufus, and Christine rummages through her notes.

'Driving Elody.'

'What?'

'Elody called and said that Kelly said it would be fine for her to have Henry for the day.'

'No, I didn't—' I try to say, but I'm cut off by an eager Christine who insists that's what Elody said.

'Well, never mind about that. Who can drive Kelly?'

It turns out that David is the only man up to the task. He's Rufus's male housekeeper. Actually, he's a butler, but that sounds so poncey that I can't bring myself to say it. He does drive sometimes though. He's driven me in the past and he's the slowest driver in the universe.

Christine scuttles from the room and returns followed at some distance by David. He comes staggering into the room like he's on the wrong side of about eighteen glasses of the finest port, like a character straight out of Acorn Antiques – you know, that comedy sketch show in which they stop and start and the furniture collapses on them and no one says their lines on time.

He bows gracefully and asks me whether he can take my bags. Since my bag's really heavy because it's stuffed full of things I want to show the girls and he's about 4000 years old, I think it might be better if I do the carrying myself. 'I'm fine,' I say and off we go towards his car.

Now, I'm the sort of girl who likes the good things in life. I mean, I'm down to earth and all that, but I do like to be treated properly. However this is another world. Being driven to Richmond Theatre in a huge, shiny Bentley by an aged man in a peak cap must rank as one of the most embarrassing things ever to happen to me. It's just torture. I feel like Lady Penelope. Everyone is staring and I'm sitting there like a complete plonker. I find myself sliding down in the seat so I can't be seen by passers-by. I don't feel grand or special or any of those things that I imagined I would feel. I just feel a bit daft.

OK. I'm here and not before time.

'Thank you, David,' I say.

'Pardon, ma'am.'

'I said thank you.'

'Sorry, ma'am?'

'It doesn't matter.'

I slam the car door and head for the theatre. I am armed with Maltesers and I'm ready for action.

'Morning, Miss Monsoon,' says Fred, the guy on the front desk. He's a bit of an odd-job man is Fred – he opens the place up, checks it's clean, opens the offices and mans the phones until the proper front-of-house woman (Barbara) arrives at midday, then he tends to work backstage, making sure the lighting and sound people have everything they need. He's never called me 'Miss Monsoon' before.

'You're a right famous celebrity now, aren't you?' he says, in that chippy Cockney accent of his. 'And look at your lovely clothes. My. You've gone all posh on us.'

I should have realised, right then, in that minute, that things had irredeemably changed in my life. But I didn't. I told him not to be so silly. 'I'm Kelly and I'll always be Kelly,' I said, kissing him on the cheek and heading towards the office.

'That's good,' he shouted after me, but I could hear the concern in his voice as keenly as I'd seen it in his eyes. He thought I was a different person now that he linked me with Rufus. Rufus was always treated differently to everyone else at the theatre, of course. From the moment he came into the building to the moment he left, people acted as if the queen were on the premises. Now I've moved in with him, I guess they consider that I'm a bit different too, which is a shame, because I'm not. I've no desire to be different. I liked things the way they were; I like me and the world I've created for myself; I like my friends and I like my life. I've fallen in love with someone. Does that mean the rest of my life has to collapse and reform itself around him?

I've been in the office about two minutes, surveying the two desks where once there were three, when Sebastian comes in. 'Welcome back,' he says rather grandly. I remove my beautiful new cashmere coat and hang it on the coat stand. The brooch on the collar sparkles under the fluorescent lighting. I've been dying to show it to the girls – they're bound to want to try it on and no doubt borrow it for their next date.

'We've missed you,' says Sebastian.

'Thanks,' I say, with genuine relief and gratitude. It's nice to think that people have actually missed me, rather than that they feel obliged to be polite because I'm Rufus's bird and Rufus is very important indeed. 'I've missed this place.'

Christ, you'd think I had been away fighting a war for five years.

'Where will I sit?' I ask, realising that it's my desk that has disappeared!

'Ah yes,' says Sebastian. 'We've been thinking about that, and I spoke to Rufus this morning. We rather thought it might be a little difficult for you to sit with the other girls and be so highly visible to all who come into the theatre. Given the interest in the press, we thought it might suit everyone if you were to be given your own special office.'

Now, I'll admit, just a few months ago, the idea of my own special office, indeed my own office – whether special or not – would have been overwhelmingly exciting to me, but so much has happened, so much in my life has changed – where I live, how I live, how I'm seen, how people speak to me – that the very idea my own self is changing scares me and I really want some things just to stay the same and be part of the old 'me'. It's a small thing, but I want my desk back. I want the messy drawers and the dog-eared books and the Post-it notes everywhere reminding me to do things because I'm always forgetting.