Read The Reluctant Celebrity Online
Authors: Laurie Ellingham
The Reluctant Celebrity
The Reluctant Celebrity
Text Copyright © 2014
Laurie Ellingham
All rights Reserved
THE DAILY
FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 14
TH
THE
MOST ROMANTIC GUY IN BRITAIN
Britain’s
top hunk, Guy Rawson, has swapped the catwalk for the recording studio to
pursue his “one true love.”
In
an exclusive interview with The Daily’s celebrity reporter Sara-Marie Frances,
Guy, 27, said: “I’ve really enjoyed modelling, it has got me where I am today,
but my passion has always been for music. It’s something I have to do now.”
The
model, who shot to fame five years ago as the face of
GiGi
Sport’s wear,
and has since dominated the catwalk with his famous moody pose, was nothing but
smiles as he explained: “The last six months have been the best. I’ve spent
every day in the studio writing and recording. I really hope the public love my
album as much as I do.”
But
when the topic moved to romance the star was quick to dismiss rumours of a relationship
with a well-known blonde Hollywood starlet and instead intimately revealed that
he was still hopelessly in love with his first girlfriend, Juliet. “I didn’t
realise it at the time, but every song I’ve written has been for her. Juliet is
the most fantastic person I’ve ever met. I still love her.”
Speaking
about his debut single ‘Regret’ he revealed: “It’s how I feel everyday when I
think about her. I was young and stupid. She was my first love and has been my
only love.”
With
other songs on the album including ‘Who is your Romeo now?’ and ‘A goodbye
fool’ it looks like Guy will need his very own cupid this Valentine’s Day.
‘Regret’,
officially released on Monday, has already climbed to number 10 in the charts
through radio play alone, and is tipped to go straight to the top spot in
Sunday’s chart show. The album also titled ‘Regret’ is released later this
month.
Good
luck Guy,
The Daily
will be first in line for the album.
Above:
Gorgeous Guy and his sexy ex, Juliet, then 20
‘Oh
no. No, no, no, no, no,’ Jules shrieked as she stepped into the darkness of her
new house, instantly covering her chocolate brown Uggs in a thick layer of
dust.
Clumps
of what looked like plaster covered every available inch of her living room. The
bare light bulb from the hallway was more than enough to illuminate the gaping
hole into the bedroom above.
‘This
can’t be happening,’ Jules cried out again as she struggled to comprehend the
mess in front of her.
‘Hello? Did someone just say something?’ A woman’s
voice called out from somewhere above her.
‘Yes hello,’ Jules called back, swallowing hard in a
futile attempt to push back the lump of panic which had ballooned in her
throat. ‘I’m the new owner.’
‘Hang on lovey; be with you in a tick. DAN, JASON, GET
DOWN HERE WILL YOU, SHE’S ARRIVED AND BE CAREFUL WHERE YOU’RE STEPPING THIS
TIME!’ A shower of dirt streamed from the ceiling as what sounded like
elephants stomped above her.
‘Oh thank goodness! I thought I was hearing voices
again.’
Jules spun around to find a small forty-something woman
in white overalls hopping through the debris towards her. Two tall and lanky
teenage boys trailed sheepishly behind her.
‘But here you are,’ the woman smiled, reaching Jules
and instantly enveloping her in a tight hug.
‘Voices?’ Jules asked releasing herself from the
embrace.
‘It’s the
—
’ one
of the boys began before the woman cut him off.
‘Never mind about that Daniel, can’t you see this lady
has had enough of a shock without you adding to it.’
‘Sorry mum,’ he mumbled.
‘Um, would someone mind telling me what exactly is
going on here?’ Jules asked, waving her hands across the wreckage.
‘Gosh where are my manners, eh? I’m Terri and these
are my boys, Daniel and Jason. We’re Cottinghale’s one and only builders and
decorators.’
‘I’m Jules Stewart.’
‘How pretty. Short for Juliet is it Lovey?’
‘No, it’s just Jules.’
‘Well we were expecting you yesterday Jules. That’s
what Dennis told us, but he often gets in a muddle about his days.’
‘Dennis the estate agent?’ Jules asked, thinking back
to the boy barely out of school who had stammered his way through the house
viewing last month.
‘That’s right lovey. He’s my nephew. A sweet boy, but
as thick as two short planks wouldn’t you say?’
‘I...I’m still not sure what has happened?’ Jules
asked again, hoping Terri wouldn’t press her for an answer about her nephew and
the level of his intellect.
‘No of course you’re not. The thing is...’ Terri
paused, casting a stony stare back towards Daniel and Jason, still lingering in
the door way. ‘These two...God, there isn’t even a word for them. You raise
them up as best as you can. I’m a single mum you see. There dad ran off with
bloody Dawn from the Post Office, leaving me with two boisterous toddlers
eating me out of house and home.
‘You do what you think is best, help them with their
home work, teach them a trade, that kind of thing, all the while assuming they
are developing a sense of right and wrong. You see a light at the end of the
tunnel, they show some basic human skills, and then like bloody criminals, they
sneak in here for a look about and...’
‘Alright mum,’ Daniel cut in. ‘We get it. We know we
were wrong and we really are sorry, but how were we supposed to know the whole
ceiling would come down? We barely even stepped into the bedroom and it just
went.’
The look Terri gave her son reminded Jules of the look
her own mother used when she battled shoppers for the best bargains in the
January sales. ‘The important thing,’ she said, turning back to Jules. ‘Is that
we will fix it. I’ve taken a look and from what I can see it’s just one lathe
that needs replacing, the rest are fine. We’ll have this mess cleared away and
a new ceiling back up in no time. I’ve already put a call into my brother Tom,
he does plastering you see. Anyway, he’ll pop in as soon as we’re fixed up.
‘Right,’ Jules nodded with a feeling of helplessness.
What were lathes? And what kind of hell had she just walked into? Jules
attempted a calming breath, filling her mouth with the millions upon millions
of dirt particles floating in the air.
‘For free of course and we’ll pay for your stay at Mrs
Beckwith’s whilst we clear out this dust. Lord knows you can’t stay here.’
‘I’m sorry, who is Mrs Beckwith?’ Jules choked. It
felt as if she had tuned into a soap opera half way through and couldn’t quite
figure out what was going on.
‘You’ll love her. She runs a Bed and Breakfast down
the road. She’s as sweet as apple crumble. I phoned earlier so she’s expecting
you.’
‘I can’t believe this,’ Jules mumbled almost to
herself as she cast another look around the room. To say her first project as a
property developer wasn’t off to the best of starts was an understatement of
drastic proportions.
‘I’m truly sorry,’ Terri said, taking Jules’ hand.
‘Very very sorry.’
‘It’s not your fault. Well actually it is, but it’s
okay. I just...I just feel a bit out of my depth,’ she admitted as the painful
lump expanded back into her throat.
‘Come on lovey, let’s get you outside. Staying in this
room too long is no good for the lungs. It will all look better in the day
light tomorrow,’ Terri soothed, pulling Jules gently towards the front door.
‘What are all these papers doing here?’ Jules asked,
noticing for the first time the knee-high stacks of newspapers piled neatly
against the wall, leading all the way from the front door to the kitchen.
‘Oh don’t worry about those. Stan at the shop can
explain,’ Terri answered quickly, ‘We’ll clear them out with the rest of this
mess just as soon as the skip arrives.’
‘But I didn’t order any papers. There must be hundreds
of them.’ Jules felt the first throb of a headache wind its way behind her
eyes.
‘From what I gather the previous … err … owner paid
for a lifetime’s delivery in her will and, well, Stan didn’t want to go against
her wishes.’
‘But that’s ridiculous,’ she exclaimed picking up the
newspaper nearest to her, ‘This one has yesterday’s date on it. Why on earth
would anyone keep delivering papers...?’ Jules broke off as a gut punch of
recognition ricocheted through her, sucking the breath out of her lungs.
She staggered back, pulling away from Terri’s hold,
her mind failing to make sense of what her eyes were showing her. The girl in
the photograph on the front page was sickeningly familiar. The bleached blonde
pixie cut, the pink highlights and the clashing red platforms. It was nothing
like how Jules looked now with her long brown hair, always tied back, and her
understated wardrobe, but that wide smile grinning back at her - Jules knew it
instantly, even after all this time.
‘Are you alright Lovey?’ Terri asked, cutting into
Jules’ racing mind. ‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’
‘I … I …’ Jules stammered, her voice barely a whisper.
‘I’m fine. I just thought I saw something, it’s nothing,’ she replied, noting
the looks of concern crossing between the boys and their mother. Had they seen
the photograph too? Did they know it was her? Jules wondered with escalating
horror, stuffing the newspaper deep into the pocket of her olive green Parker.
‘Right everyone outside before we all breathe in any
more of this dust,’ Terri commanded, moving her arms to shoo her boys and Jules
outside. ‘Once you’ve had a hot shower and are tucked up with a cup of tea at
Mrs Beckwith’s none of this will seem so bad.’
Jules felt her head nod as she
allowed herself to be ushered into the clear crisp February evening. Five years
of being in control of her own life and just like that he could swoop in and
destroy it all again.
As Terri’s headlights disappeared from view, Jules
fought the urge to pull out the newspaper from her pocket. The full moon, which
had illuminated her driveway a short time earlier, had since been swallowed by
endless cloud, leaving her in complete darkness. For the first time since her
arrival in Cottinghale, Jules stared out at her surroundings, which right now
looked like a wall of inky black closing in from every direction.
Jules stumbled one foot in front of the other towards
Mrs Beckwith’s guesthouse, filled with a sudden longing for the familiar orange
streetlights that had blanketed Reading, and which she had, until that very
moment, loathed. The silence she had longed for in the city now seemed eerie.
What she wouldn’t give for the incessant hum of a
motorway to comfort her
–
anything, in fact, that would make
her feel more like the confident, independent woman she was, instead of a
character from the opening scenes of a teen horror film; the one that always
got killed. As if answering her wish, a bright security light jumped on,
lighting her way to a small blue front door.
Before Jules could knock an elderly woman in a floral housecoat
and fraying thick cardigan opened the door, peering at Jules through one-inch
thick glasses.
‘Mrs Beckwith? I’m Jules Stewart. I believe Terri has
booked me a room.’
‘Of course. Welcome, welcome, please come in. How nice
to meet a new resident in our little hamlet. I can’t tell you how excited we
all are to have you here.’
Jules opened her mouth to correct the elderly lady.
She had no plans to remain in Cottinghale long enough to be considered a
resident, but as she stepped into the hallway the words disappeared.
In the instant the front door closed behind her, Jules
felt the tiny hairs on the back of her neck prick up, as if a million pairs of
eyes had set their gaze on her. Yet, other than the frail body of Mrs Beckwith,
they seemed to be alone. That was until she saw them, lining the shelf above
the radiator, and every other available surface in Mrs Beckwith’s house. Tiny
brass animals of every kind imaginable – owls, tigers, mice, monkeys. Their
beady black eyes staring out at her.
‘This is the living room,’ the old lady explained as
she led Jules into a room at the front of the house straight out of the 1950s.
Four high-backed maroon chairs with white lacy doilies
on the arms and head rests consumed the room, all pointing at an old television
with wood-panelled sides that looked as if it had been there for more years
than Jules had been alive.
‘I’ve
got my own annex off from the kitchen so you’re welcome to spend as much time
in here as you like. I’m afraid you’re the only guest at the moment so you
might find it a bit quiet, but once you’ve got to know everyone you’ll feel
right at home.’
‘Great,
thank you,’ Jules mumbled, her gaze falling to a tall sideboard opposite the
doorway. On the top, above a stack of decrepit looking board games and a shelf
of nameless red books, sat a row of multi-coloured bottles which seemed to beckon
Jules like a hot bath on a cold night.
‘Help
yourself,’ Mrs Beckwith nodded, following Jules’ gaze. ‘From what Terri told
me, you’ll need a drink,’ she added with a chuckle.
‘Thanks,’
Jules replied with a weak smile.
Mrs
Beckwith shuffled on to a room towards the back of the house, bumping into a
side table as she moved and scattering the ornamental animals resting on it.
Lucky they were brass and not porcelain, Jules thought, wondering if Mrs
Beckwith’s glasses needed to be a few inches thicker.
‘And
here’s the dining room,’ she began, leading Jules into an equally dated room
with a long, dark wood table, complete with a lace tablecloth.
‘I
do breakfast anytime you like, from toast to the full works. I can also do evening
meals. Just let me know in each morning if you’ll be wanting something,’ the
old lady explained, knocking into a chair and letting out a loud trumpet fart.
‘Oops, do excuse me, my dear. It’s this high-fibre diet those pesky doctors
have got me on,” Mrs Beckwith chuckled.
Jules
stifled a smirk. ‘That’s very kind of you Mrs Beckwith. Err, shall we say
coffee and toast at eight tomorrow and go from there?’
‘That’s
fine dear.’
It
took another ten minutes before Mrs Beckwith showed Jules to her room. The old
lady talking as slowly as she moved, bumping into several more tables before
she made it to the narrow staircase. Each knock unleashing more noises from the
landlady and more detail than Jules cared to know about high-fibre diets.
‘I’ve
got three rooms I hire out, all the same apart from the colours. I’ve put you
in the yellow room; it’s the nicer one,’ the old lady smiled at Jules, showing
off a row of gleaming white dentures.
As
Jules stepped through the open doorway she fought the urge to laugh at the room
before her. Compared to the rest of the house it was almost completely bare. A
single bed rested against the only radiator, just below a single-paned window
looking out into the darkness. A mustard yellow bed cover and matching curtains
provided the only colour to the room.
Apart
from the bed, a thin wardrobe and a chest of draws were the only other pieces
of furniture in the room; both tucked against the wall opposite a beautiful
mahogany fireplace, which looked like it belonged in a national heritage home
rather than Mrs Beckwith’s strange guesthouse.
