Watching Willow Watts (13 page)

‘
All you need to do is just move them like this
,’ – he pushed her hips to one side – ‘and then move them around like this.’ Jay rotated her waist in a circle and Willow tried to ignore the fact that her arse cushion was pressed up against his groin.

‘
Um, great! Thanks!’ she said, cursing her voice for sounding so breathy. ‘I think I’ve got it.’ Sort of.

‘
Perfect
, because we have to hit the green.’ Jay pecked her on the cheek then wiped the heavy foundation from his lips. ‘And good news! Simpson says he reckons around a thousand new people have come into town today. And almost half that are press. I knew this concert would do the trick. Once this is over, I’ve got big plans, baby. Big plans.’

‘
Fantastic
.’ Willow tried to sound enthusiastic, but she couldn’t even think beyond the next thirty minutes.

‘
Let’s go.’ Her heart picked
up pace as they started walking toward the village green. Running through the words of the song, she sent up a quick prayer she didn’t forget them. What kind of Marilyn would she be if she fluffed the lyrics? Fingers crossed she could do this.

The noise of the crowd grew louder as Willow and Jay neared the green, and Willow’s mouth dropped open as she spotted what looked like the entire population of London crowded onto the small patch of grass. Flashes and cheers rang out as people spotted her approaching. Matthias was there, too, doing what looked like a live report.

‘
Just get up on that.’ Jay pointed to an old battered riser Willow recognised from her days at Belcherton Primary. ‘Smile, bat your eyelashes, and then I’ll start the music.’ He stood back and gave her a quick once-over. ‘Yes, you look fine. Next time, though, I want more lipstick.’

Willow nodded, barely registering
the words as her eyes swept over the people surrounding the small platform. Taking a deep breath in – as deeply as possible, given the tight garment – she told herself this was just like playing dress-up. It wasn’t really
Willow
doing all this; it was Marilyn. As long as she remembered that, she might be okay.

Jay gave her a little push forward and she almost
stumbled. ‘Time for your debut,’ he said, smiling encouragingly.

So nervou
s she might throw up the disgusting shortbreads, Willow plastered on a giant grin, fluttered her eyelashes and carefully shimmied up onto the platform. The tight dress meant she had to stick out her bum to even raise her leg one inch. The audience certainly seemed to appreciate her manoeuvres, erupting into wolf-whistles and cheers. She gave her sizeable rear an extra swivel just for the hell of it. The applause swelled even more, and she relaxed a tiny bit. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad.

But when she turned
to face the crowd, a wave of fear crashed into her. The small high street was jam-packed with humanity as far as the eye could see, with people holding up mobiles, cameras . . .

Willow shook her head to clear it
.
Don’t look at the crowd; just focus on individual faces, one at a time.
It was what her mum had told her, when Willow had been terrified to go onstage during the Christmas pantomime in Year Four – and Willow had just been a sheep! If only Mum could see her now.

Okay. She took the battered mic in her hand and checked that it
wasn’t
on. Nodding to Jay to start the recording, she filled her lungs as the music boomed through the air.

Mouthing
along with the words, Willow shook her shoulders back and forth in time to the backing track as her fake bosom bounced alarmingly. Rotating her hips, her cheeks flushed as she remembered Jay’s hands on her waist . . . but she was Marilyn now. She didn’t have to be shy any longer! Giving her gyrations extra oomph, she smiled into face after eager face, concentrating on the front row. This wasn’t so horrible. In fact, it was – in a strange sort of way – kind of fun. Sure, people were watching her every move. But they seemed to be enjoying it, swaying along to the tune and beaming up at her. Even Mrs Greene was tapping her foot.

Moving her lips, Willow forced herself to concentrate on the lyrics. She was almost half-way through when a squeal of feedback jolted through the speaker and the music ceased. What the hell? Unsure what to do next, Willow glanced over at Jay, who just shrugged and gestured for her to carry on. Oh God. She stood, stunned for a second. What would Marilyn do in this situation?

Willow drew in a deep breath.

‘
We seem to have a technical problem,’
she chirped, using her best American accent. Leaning toward the crowd, she pressed her fake breasts together. ‘So I’ll just finish you all off nice and quick.’ She quirked an eyebrow at them. God, where had that come from, she wondered, doing another little twirl?

‘
Boo boo
de boo!’ she sang – more like screeched – then smiled and curtsied, hoping the crowd would accept the sudden end to the concert.

Silence fell over the green and Willow froze. Were they going to lynch her for being a fraud? Run her out of the village?

Then, like a giant Mexican wave, a cheer swept through the
audience, growing in strength and intensity until Willow felt the force of it would lift her off her feet.

‘
Mar-i-lyn! Mar-i-lyn!’ the crowd chanted. Relief rushed into her so intensely she nearly keeled over.

She’d done it. Sh
e’d got up on stage without fainting or letting down anyone. If she just forgot she was Willow and focused on performing, she
could
be Marilyn in all her glory (well, most her glory). A couple of weeks and a few gigs later, and her father’s shop would be back in the black.

‘
So, what did you think?’ Willow
asked Jay, a few minutes later. She couldn’t help feeling a little proud at how well she’d coped with the unexpected hiccup.

‘
Fine,
baby, fine.’ Jay patted her back. ‘You need to develop a better onstage presence, but you handled the sound problem quite well. Now, how about you sign some autographs?’ He pushed a pen into her hands then gestured toward the crowd, who were wildly waving random Marilyn merchandise in the air. ‘It’s the perfect opportunity to mix with your fans.’

‘
All
right.’ Willow’s head ached from the stress of performing, but if Jay thought it best to mingle with the fans, she’d give it a go.

‘
Sign this, sign this!’ Willow
couldn’t even spot the faces past the items thrust her way. Grabbing a glossy photo of Marilyn in a beach chair, she carefully wrote
Marilyn Monroe
in big, curlicue letters, with several x’s beneath it. God knows how Marilyn used to sign things, but it must be somewhere along those lines. Pushing it back into the punter’s waiting hand, she tried to move on, but the man behind the photo grabbed her arm. ‘I’ve got twenty more here for you to do.’

‘
Back off, mate,’ J
ay hissed, jerking her away from the man’s pincer-like grip. ‘Don’t engage in conversation,’ he whispered in her ear as he propelled her to the next fan. ‘Just write Marilyn’s name and move on.’

Thirty minutes later
– hand cramping from signing everything from white satin Marilyn tissues to a woman’s pregnant belly – Willow was only a quarter of the way down the jammed high street. She paused for a second and took a deep breath to try to control the rising panic. Fans’ frantic screams echoed in her head, the waiting throng was starting to look angry rather than adoring, and somehow she’d got separated from Jay.

Best get on with it, she sighed, turning to the person nearest to her.

‘
Could
I have your autograph?’

Willow
froze. That voice sounded like . . . no, it couldn’t be. Could it?

Heart pounding, she pushed aside a gleaming Marilyn balloon, and there – right in front of her – was Alex. His face was more defined than she remembered, and his dark hair was cut shorter. But his eyes, those light-blue eyes that always seemed to know just what she was thinking, were the same.

Her mind raced frantically as she tr
ied to figure out what he was doing in Belcherton. He knew she lived here, of course, but surely he hadn’t come to visit? She swallowed hard, trying to keep her face neutral as memories of the last time she’d seen him – that horrible night at the Landmark Hotel – flooded into her head.

Mum
had been gone for a few months, and after learning just how bad her father’s health was, Willow had made the permanent move back to Belcherton. Despite protesting that her father couldn’t expect Willow to drop her London life, Alex had tried to support her decision. But as time went on – and dealing with Dad’s grief while desperately coaxing him into a healthier lifestyle absorbed Willow – it became harder and harder to meet up, even though London was only two hours away. Alex’s crazy busy work schedule hadn’t exactly helped, either.

One night
mid-November, Alex had rung with an invitation to attend his firm’s annual Christmas party at the posh Landmark Hotel in London. Her heart had sunk as soon as he’d told her the date: December third, the same evening as the village’s annual Christmas lighting festival. As the Christmas season approached, her dad had become increasingly morose, and Willow knew this night would be almost as bad as Christmas Day.

Ever since Willow could remember, Mum had been in charge of organising the event. And every year, once the tree was on and the village bathed in the soft glow of twinkling lights, Dad would hijack Simpson’s PA system, tell everyone he was the luckiest man alive since his wife ‘lit him up every day’, then enthusiastically kiss her. The ritual had been a nightmare of embarrassment for Willow when she’d been growing up, and she’d hidden out at home rather than watch her parents snog in front of the crowd. But as she’d got older, she’d found it sweet. This was the first year Mum was gone, and Willow couldn’t begin to imagine how her father would cope with the festivities without his wife beside him. Leaving Dad on that night was unthinkable, she’d told Alex.

‘
I know it’s hard for him, Wills,’ Alex had said. ‘But it’s been a while now, since your mum . . . you know, and you’ve barely left his side. I really want to see you. It seems like ages, and this is our firm’s biggest party of the year.’

‘
I want to see you, too.’ Tears filled Willow’s eyes as longing swept over her. ‘But . . .’ She couldn’t leave her dad. She just couldn’t.

‘
Look, don’t worry about it
.’ Alex’s tone was even, but she could sense an edge to it. ‘I understand. I’ll talk to you later.’ And then he’d hung up.

‘
Willow?’

Alex’s warm voice jolted her back to reality.

‘
Um, hi,’ she said, trying to smile naturally. Her mouth was so dry her lips were sticking to her gums. ‘Good to see you again. What are you doing here?’ The question popped out before she even had time to think.

‘
My firm’s bidding
to design the town’s new tourist centre.’ Alex leaned forward to shout in her ear and she caught a heady whiff of his musky cologne, the same one he used to wear when they were dating. ‘And I–’

‘
Come on!’ the hefty woman beside Alex shouted at him, nearly knocking him over with her jumbo-sized arm. ‘Stop hogging Marilyn. Get your willie signed and move on!’

Alex smiled, and Willow’s heart squeezed at the familiar grin. ‘Your fans await. But look, it would be great to catch up; to hear how all this’ – he waved his hands around –‘happened. And, you know, to see how you’ve been.’ His eyes met hers. ‘I’m in town until tomorrow afternoon. You free for dinner tonight?’

Willo
w stared, trying to determine what to say. Despite the pull she felt toward him, meeting up again probably wasn’t a good idea. He’d moved on with his life and she was still stuck in Belcherton. They were even further apart than ever . . . not to mention Claire.

‘
Okay.
’ The word flew out before she could stop it.
Shit!
What could she say to get out of this one?

‘
Great. I’ll meet you by the fountain beside the green at seven,’ Alex said.

And before Willow had the chance to respond, the over-enthusiastic woman grabbed Willow’s wrist and hauled her away as Alex disappeared into the crowd.

*

Cissy
limped up the high street, heart sinking as she spotted a mass of people ahead at the village green. The strains of
I Wanna Be Loved By You
drifted through the air, and she could just make out a blonde head bobbing above the crowd. What was this, some kind of concert?

For the love of God, she really couldn’t understand what all the fuss was about. Last night, Cissy had f
inally given in to her curiosity and turned on one of those foul twenty-four-hour entertainment channels. She’d only watched for five minutes when the silly video of Willow Watts being Marilyn had come on. It was amateurism at its very worst, and that image floating above Willow was just that: an image, pure and simple. How unfair this girl could become an overnight sensation, while professionals like Cissy had struggled every day to make it big.