Watching Willow Watts (7 page)

Willow couldn’t help smiling at the memory. She’d never forget that day in the playground when Paula, the prettiest girl in school, had grabbed her and asked if she wanted ‘to look like a rock star’. Not wanting to say no, she’d nodded and stood still as Paula stroked markers across her face. When they’d gone back inside after the bell rang, Mrs Zane’s face had screwed up like a shrivelled Granny apple. They’d both had break-time detention for almost a month afterward, and the two of them forged a firm friendship.

‘
And then fifteen years later, I opened RockIt,’ Paula continued.

Willow bit her lip and tried not to laugh at how
, as the questions went on, Paula managed to bring every single one back to her business.

A short time later, Sheila swung the chair
toward the mirror. ‘There! Done. I hope you like it.’

‘
It’s great,’ Willow responded automatically, but when she saw her reflection, she really meant it. Shiny hair sprang up around her shoulders, the volume making her face appear fuller and healthier. She actually resembled a living, breathing human instead of someone who’d been shoved in a wardrobe and left to rot. Would Jay like her new look? Don’t be silly, she scolded herself. It’s a business dinner, that’s all.

‘
You look fantastic!’ Paula said, coming over.

‘
Where’s Matthias?’ Willow glanced around but she couldn’t see any trace of the reporter.

Paula shrugged. ‘He
took off. Something to do with filing the story. Listen, have fun tonight,’ she said. ‘Just hear the man out, okay? He might be able to help. And if nothing else, maybe you can get a good snog out of him!’ She lifted an eyebrow and smirked at Willow. ‘Or more. It has been ages, hasn’t it?’

‘
You don’t need to
broadcast it to the whole village,’ Willow whispered, getting up out of the chair. Paula
knew
she hadn’t slept with anyone since Alex; it wasn’t like Belcherton had a whole lot on offer – not that she was looking.

‘
I’ll fill
you in tomorrow,’ Willow said, waving goodbye.

A few hours later, Wi
llow and Jay meandered along the Cotswold Way toward the neighbouring village pub, Jay’s continuous sneezing marring any chance at normal – or anything beyond monosyllabic – conversation. But even with his unromantic streaming nose and watery eyes, he was still beyond gorgeous.

I’m so sorry,’ Willow
said, after another epic sneeze from Jay. ‘If I’d known you were allergic, I would have suggested the longer way.’

Jay blew his nose loudly. ‘It’s all right.’ His tone was even, but Willow hoped he wasn’t just pretending. Not exactly a great way to start the date – or whatever this was. She hadn’t even imagined Jay might be allergic. But Jay wasn’t Alex, she reminded herself. Not all men loved flowers enough to order them almost every day, like Alex had done in those first few months.

A smile tugged at her lips as she remembered their initial meeting. Alex had strode into Liberty’s, asking for something a little bit different for Mother’s Day.

‘
Oh, you must talk to Disa,’ Willow heard her manager Joanne say to him. ‘She’s an expert in all things exotic.’

A few seconds later, Joanne was by her side. ‘There’s a hot bloke over there who could use your services,’ she hissed, poking Willow playfully. ‘And if you don’t want to serve him, then I will.’

Willow’s head had snapped up from the ribbon she’d been fussing with, cheeks flushing as she took in Alex’s thick dark hair, high cheekbones and lovely tanned skin which made his blue eyes look even bluer.

‘
Can I help you?’ she choked out, trying desperately not to swoon at how handsome he was. Risking a glance at his eyes, she couldn’t help noticing how they crinkled up at the sides as he smiled down at her.

‘
I want something unique for my mum. None of those pink carnations or yellow roses.’ He made a face and Willow nodded. She couldn’t agree more. Why people loved to go with clichéd flowers when beautiful blossoms like orchids were available was beyond her. ‘Can you suggest anything?’

‘
Actually, yes.’ She went to the back of the shop to the Disas and carefully selected a delicate stalk with an orange-red blossom. ‘What about this one? It’s an orchid from South Africa.’

Alex reached out to touch the orange-red petals. ‘It’s gorgeous.’

‘
Isn’t it?’ Willow loved seeing the appreciation in
his eyes. ‘Some florists surround it with greenery and other blossoms, but I prefer it alone. It’s so lovely, it doesn’t need any fancy dressing.’

‘
You’re the expert.’ His eyes did that cute wrinkly thing again, and Willow tore her gaze back to the orchids before she melted into a puddle in the middle of the shop floor.

‘
I’ll just get a few stems together for you and wrap them up,’ she said. Handing him the order, she prayed he’d come back again. It was nice to have a customer who trusted her judgment and liked something out of the ordinary. Not to mention one who was drop-dead gorgeous.

T
hankfully, he had returned, always asking for ‘Disa’ and always requesting the orchids. Over time, their talk had turned from flowers to pretty much anything and everything, and Willow had been amazed how comfortable she’d felt around him. Despite the butterflies inside, she’d kept her attraction under wraps. Alex
must
have a girlfriend – who else would he buy that many flowers for? But one day to her great surprise, he ordered a bunch for her, complete with an invitation to his flat for dinner. Practically shaking with nervous excitement, she’d walked straight into a room chock full of Disas. The heady scent had been overpowering, and Willow had turned, shocked, toward him. But instead of explaining, Alex had just pulled her into his arms and kissed her.

Stop it
, Willow told herself firmly. Alex was in the past, and that was where he belonged.

A few
minutes later, Jay and Willow reached the pub in the small neighbouring hamlet of Upper Bournington.

‘
Welcome, welcome,
Willow. Or should I say, the new Marilyn!’ George Jensen, the owner, bustled around as if they were royalty. Willow nearly landed on the floor after he over-enthusiastically jerked out her chair.

‘
It’s fine,
George,’ she said, touching his arm. The poor man looked near tears, and Willow knew through her father that George’s heart couldn’t take much stress.

‘
You’d better get used to it,’ Jay said. ‘If you sign with me, you’ll get five-star treatment all the way.’ He took her hand and Willow’s heart fluttered. ‘Being a star has massive advantages. With the money you’ll make, everyone will benefit. Your friends, your family. Plus, you’ll be a great draw for the area.’

Willow nodded, thinking about his words. She still couldn’t believe so many people would travel here because of one video – and even more, that they’d think she was Marilyn once they saw her in the flesh. But that night in the pub . . . she shivered, recalling all the eyes trained on her. And it
was
obvious the whole town was benefitting. Even her father’s shop had got some extra custom, raising their bank account balance to four hundred pounds – although that wasn’t even half of next month’s payment, she thought glumly.

Could signing with this agent be the way out of the shop’s money problems?

‘
So
what exactly did you mean by new revenue streams?’ Willow asked, trying to ignore the heat creeping into her face as Jay massaged her thumb.

‘
Well, you can see by how many fans have come to your village what power Marilyn Monroe still has. And if people really do think you’re Marilyn reincarnate – or that she has some kind of connection to you – you’ve got some of that power. Turn that into money and you’ll be raking in thousands, fast.’

Thousands? God, if only. But
as much as the thought of getting the shop in the safety zone appealed, she couldn’t do it at the expense of poor, delusional people. ‘I don’t really want to exploit anyone.’

‘
You’re not exploiting them. As you’ve seen, they’re going to believe what they believe, whether you play along or not.’

Willow took a sip of the red wine George had set before her
. ‘How much do you charge for all this?’

‘
Well, look.’ Jay leaned back in his chair. ‘Most agents take half of whatever you earn, but I’ll do it for forty per cent.’

Hm
m. Forty seemed like a lot, but what did she know? He’d be doing all the behind-the-scenes work, while she’d be doing . . . what exactly? ‘Let’s say I did sign up. What would I have to do?’ She could smile and nod with the best of them, but no way could she morph into Marilyn Monroe overnight.

‘
Not too much.’
Jay waved a hand in the air. ‘But hey, let’s talk about this later. Right now, I just want to get to know all about you.’ He smiled and Willow felt her insides go soft as those long-lashed eyes met hers.

‘
Okay, well,
I grew up here, worked in London for a bit, then moved back to live with my father,’ she began, wondering what else to tell him.

‘
And?’ Jay prompted, squeezing her hand. Another round of tingles went through her.

‘
N
ow I help him out in the antique shop.’ Willow fell silent. What more could she say? That was basically life now in a nutshell. ‘And that’s about it,’ she finished grimly.

Jay raised his glass in the air. ‘Not if you stick with me, baby. Not if you stick with me.’

*

Betts’
s generous lips stretched in a yawn as she surveyed the buildings around her with a sinking heart.
This
was Belcherton – the home of the new Marilyn? She’d always pictured English villages full of those cute white houses topped with thatched roofs, lining cobblestone streets. This place looked more like the grounds of The Heinz factory back home.

Still! She was in England!
Lucy and Tim had been almost hysterical at the airport, begging her not to go and exclaiming over and over she was too old to travel alone – and didn’t she realise what happened to elderly divorcées on holiday? Goodness knows what kind of TV shows they’d been watching. And it wasn’t like she was elderly, anyway – fifty-nine was a spring chicken these days. She’d shaken them off and, despite the volcano of fear bubbling inside, had boarded the plane.

After a nightmare
transfer at Heathrow where she couldn’t understand anyone even though they’d apparently been speaking English, she’d finally managed to find the right connection for the bus for Belcherton. Two hours later, here she was.

But now what? Betts bit her lip as she looked up and down the busy street. Maybe she should have thought this through more. In her eagerness to get here, she hadn’t even booked a place to stay, figuring she’d go with the flow and find one upon arrival. She fluffed up her curls and slicked on some ruby red lipstick, then dragged her wheelie suitcase across the broken asphalt toward what looked to be the centre of town.

Ah, here wa
s the tourist information booth, located inside a bus shelter. Kind of strange, but perhaps it was a British thing. The architecture always seemed quite quirky on the National Geographic channel.

‘
Hi there!’ she called cheerfully to a dapper but tired-looking man behind a small counter that was leaning precariously to one side. ‘I’m Betts Johnson.’

‘
Hello, Betts, and welcome to Belcherton.’ The man handed her a clipboard. ‘If you could sign here and indicate where you’re from, I’d very much appreciate it. If we get enough signatures, the council will give us funding for a new tourist centre.’

‘
Oh, fantastic!’ Betts scrawled her name underneat
h someone from Warszawa. Goodness, where was that? ‘I’ve come all the way from Georgia,’ she said proudly. ‘Could you point me in the direction of a hotel here?’

The man shook his head. ‘I’m very sorry, but everything in the village or nearby is full.’

Betts blinked. ‘Full?’

‘
You can try Cheltenham or maybe Stow-on-the-Wold – each is about forty minutes away. If you have any camping gear, you’re more than welcome to set up in the East Field.’

‘
But . . .’ Betts’s voice trailed off as a woman elbowed in front of her and started barking at the man in a heavy foreign accent. Forty minutes away? Might as well have stayed home in Carter. She needed to be in the heart of the action! Sighing, Betts backed out of the rickety structure and walked a few paces down the street, taking in the dingy storefronts.

What would Marilyn do? Marilyn would just knock on a door, smile, and
expect
someone to help. Betts squared her shoulders as determination went through her: that’s what Betts would do, too – starting with this shop right here.
Watts’s Antiques
, it said on the dusty window. To the left of the door was a small buzzer, and Betts pressed it tentatively. The shop looked shut, but there was a sliver of light toward the back and Betts thought she spotted movement. Oh, good! Someone was coming.

‘
Sorry, we’re closed at the mo
ment,’ a man around her age, with a kind smile and one of those nice full beards Gord could never grow, said. ‘We open again tomorrow at ten.’ He started to shut the door.