Molly's Millions (13 page)

Molly had the strangest feeling that someone was calling her name, which was really rather absurd because she was sat on the side of Mam Tor with nothing around her but grass and sky. She put it down to exhaustion because she’d had a busy day.

She couldn’t really say why she’d chosen to visit Derbyshire other than her love of open spaces, but it had certainly kept her occupied: widows, old people’s homes, a church raising funds for a new roof, and a fete raising money for a local animal rescue centre – it was all there ready for her and her money.

Although Molly had never had so much fun in her life, there was a little part of her that wanted to return home, especially now that The Bloom Room actually belonged to her. She missed the quietness of the flowers and the golden afternoons when Mrs Purdie would call. Molly smiled as she remembered her dear customer. One of the first things
she’d done before leaving on her trip was to set up a weekly delivery of flowers to the old lady, arranged via her florist friend.

The thing that amazed Molly the most was the pleasure a little bit of money gave people. It was the grease that lubricated life but it could also so easily become the spanner in the works.

Molly wondered if, perhaps, she’d kept a little too much for herself. The last thing she wanted was to become a Bailey. It was strange to think of the money she’d put away just sitting earning interest: all that money accumulating without her having to lift a finger. She’d never earned any decent interest before: her barren bank accounts had never yielded more than a few pounds each year. Her life as an earner was a constant embarrassment. Her brother, who’d once helped her to fill in her tax return, had been flabbergasted.

‘Is this it?’ he’d said in horrified disbelief. ‘Are you absolutely
sure
that’s a whole year’s worth?’

Molly nodded. ‘Quite sure. My maths isn’t the best in the world but the figures are so small that they were simple enough to add up.’

‘How the hell are you managing?’

‘Bank loan.’

Marty’s eyebrows rose. To him, the word
loan
was up there with
debt
and
bankruptcy
as things that would never enter his own realm.

‘I know what you’re thinking, but things really are improving,’ Molly said. ‘Look – I’ve worked it out – I’m up by three per cent on last year.’

Marty didn’t look impressed. ‘This isn’t good, Moll. You need a serious injection of money into this place if you’re to
survive.’

‘What do you suggest I do? Go out and apply for a lottery grant?’

Molly laughed as she remembered mentioning the word
lottery
but quickly stopped as she thought of how Marty would react if he ever found out. No, he mustn’t ever know, she thought. Briefly, she wondered if she’d made a mistake telling Carolyn but she’d trust her with her life. She wouldn’t let on. The only way Marty could possibly find out was if he read
Vive!
.

Molly frowned as she thought of the reporter again. Tom Mackenzie. Peeping Tom. He had the power to ruin everything for her and the thought made her blood boil. But the likelihood of Marty picking up a copy of
Vive!
was somewhat remote. He was a bit of a snob when it came to newspapers and there just weren’t enough financial pages in that rag to tempt him to buy it.

Molly flopped back on the grassy hill, her hand resting on Fizz, who was panting after their walk. Life was good, she thought and, at least for the moment, nobody knew where she was or what she was doing.

‘It’s not possible,’ Magnus said, a copy of
Vive!
shaking in his hands. ‘I was just talking to her – yesterday – she would have said something.’

‘She’s said nothing to me, that’s for sure,’ Marty said.

‘But how did she get so much money all of a sudden?’ Magnus asked, his face as dark as December.

Marty scowled at the report again. ‘It just says they think she’s a lottery winner.’

‘But
how much
?’

‘It doesn’t say, Dad!’ Marty said, becoming impatient. ‘Nobody seems to know.’

‘It’s that bloody Percy woman!’ Old Bailey intoned, his face turning puce as he grabbed the newspaper from his grandson and read it in disbelief. ‘She’s to blame. Bad influence on this family – right from the start.’

‘Dad,’ Magnus said, ‘you can’t keep blaming her.’

‘Why not, eh? You tell me why not!’ he barked from the winged chair, heavy jowls shaking in anger.

Magnus ran a hand through his hair and shook his head.

It was at that point that Marty turned to Carolyn. ‘You know something about this, don’t you?’ he said, his voice sounding bruised, as if instantly suspecting that she’d betrayed him.

‘Wh-what do you mean?’

‘She rang – yesterday.’

‘I told you, Marty, we were just chatting.’

‘But she
must
have said something!’ Marty said in exasperation. ‘Look!’ He picked up the copy of
Vive!
and waved it under Carolyn’s nose. ‘It’s in the paper, for God’s sake.’ And then he paused. ‘Hang on a minute. Wasn’t that man who visited a reporter? Caro?’

She nodded.

Marty opened the paper with clumsy hands. ‘Tom Mackenzie? The same man? What does he know that we don’t? Carolyn? What did he say to you?’

‘Nothing! He said nothing!’

‘Then why did he visit?’

‘I don’t know – he’d heard a rumour or something. I don’t remember. I had other things on my mind that day,’ she said, glaring at her husband lest he should have forgotten.

 ‘This just doesn’t make any sense. Why wouldn’t she tell us?’ Marty asked angrily.

Carolyn was fast becoming angry herself. They just had to take a closer look at themselves to see why Molly wouldn’t want to confide in them but they wouldn’t think to do that. Sometimes, she wanted to grab hold of them all and shake them until they saw sense. Instead she stood spectator-like, as the scene escalated out of control before her.

‘This is so like Molly – selfish, headstrong—’

Old Bailey interrupted Marty from his winged chair. ‘I don’t understand what’s going on!’ His bony hand extended and he grabbed the newspaper for a second time.

‘We’re trying to find out, Granddad.’

‘Well get a bloody move on before she spends all this money.’

Marty’s eyes widened at his words. ‘You’re right! We’ve got to get a move on. We’ve got to go after her,’ he said, looking round the room excitedly as if he was already mentally packing.

‘You can’t be serious, Marty!’ Carolyn said, fear filling her body.

‘I’m dead serious,’ Marty said. ‘We’ve got to find her. We’ve got to put a stop to all this nonsense.’

Carolyn knew she couldn’t let this happen; she had to try and make Marty see sense. ‘Wait!’ she said. ‘Just think for a moment. If Molly has won this money and she hasn’t told you, it’s for a reason, and there’s absolutely no point in you trying to find her because she doesn’t want to be found.’

Marty’s eyes narrowed. ‘You do know something about this, don’t you?’

‘I’ve told you, I don’t.’

 ‘Then why did she ring you yesterday?’

Carolyn sighed. ‘We were just talking – like we normally do.’

‘But she
must
have said something to you!’

‘Honestly, Marty, she didn’t,’ Carolyn said, swallowing quickly. As much as she hated lying to her husband, seeing his reaction to this firmly placed her on Molly’s side.

‘There’s something you’re not telling us, and that’s why we’ve got to get a move on. We’ve got to find her before she does something really stupid,’ Marty said.

‘I’m coming with you!’ Old Bailey shouted, and he was on his feet in a split second. ‘Where’s my scarf?’

‘Granddad, it’s the middle of August – you won’t need your scarf. Anyway, just hang on a minute,’ Marty said, his face scowling in deep thought. ‘It’s getting a bit late now. By the time we pack, we won’t get very far and then we’ll have to shell out for an overnighter.’

Magnus and Old Bailey nodded their heads in agreement.

‘Far better to start fresh in the morning.’

Carolyn rolled her eyes. ‘This is
ridiculous
. It doesn’t matter what she’s doing or where she’s doing it. She isn’t answerable to you.’

But it was no use; nobody was listening to her. The three Bailey men were poring over the newspaper again.

‘Moor View flats – Bradford!’ Magnus shouted. ‘Bloody hell – she’s been back to Bradford and she didn’t tell me!’

‘Five
hundred
pounds to each flat!’ Marty said.

‘That bloody Percy woman!’ Old Bailey said, shaking a fist at
Vive!
. ‘Let me get my scarf. We’ll leave first thing in the morning.’

Tom could feel beads of sweat breaking out on his forehead as the make-up girl hovered over him with a damp sponge the colour of mud.

‘Is that entirely necessary?’ he asked.

‘You don’t want to appear all blotchy and shiny on camera, do you?’ the girl said, running the brown sponge over his cheeks and squashing it into his nose as if she meant to remove it. ‘Sit still, please,’ she said in a voice like ice. ‘I’ve got Nicole and Juliette to do yet. You’re not the only celebrity on tonight, you know.’

‘N-Nicole?’ Tom said, his voice cracking in anticipation. It couldn’t be, could it? He couldn’t even begin to hope that it might be.

‘Ms Kidman is in the next dressing room, and I don’t want to keep her waiting.’

‘N-Nicole Kidman!’

‘Don’t go getting any ideas about disturbing her. She’s
pretty down to earth but she still likes her privacy.’ The
make-up
artist slammed his drooping mouth shut before he drooled down the chin that she’d just got perfect.

‘And don’t go bothering Juliette either.’

‘J-Juliette?’ Tom was palpitating again.

‘Juliette Binoche.’ The make-up artist sighed. ‘Blimey. I would’ve thought a reporter like you would’ve done his homework before coming on a show with Nicole Kidman and Juliette Binoche!’

‘Done my homework!’ Tom said. His eyes glazed over. He wasn’t worried about having done his homework. He was more concerned that his deodorant was going to hold out when faced with two modern-day movie paragons.

‘Of course, I’ve done everyone in my time,’ the make-up artist smirked, her face bloated with smugness. ‘And I can tell you this for nothing – there’s no such thing as a natural beauty. You wouldn’t believe what some of these so-called sex symbols look like before I’ve dealt with them!’

But Tom wasn’t listening. Nicole Kidman and Juliette Binoche were down the hall. They were in the same building. He could run into them at any moment, in fact, he probably would. What would he say? What could he possibly say to the women of his dreams?

‘Hey!’ the make-up artist scolded. ‘Do you mind not perspiring quite so much? You’re sweating my foundation off.’

Tom glared at her but, before he could think of a fitting reprimand, there was a gentle knock on the door.

‘Come in!’ the make-up artist yelled.

‘Hi!’ A friendly voice floated in from the corridor and a red-haired beauty gazed in at Tom. ‘I just wanted to say good
luck. You’re Tom, aren’t you?’

Tom nodded, his knees weak from the gorgeous Australian accent even though he was sitting down.

‘Thank you, N-Nicole.’

‘Interviews always make me nervous,’ she confessed, stepping into the room, her black dress revealing a good deal of honeyed thigh. ‘You’re very brave to go first,’ she said with a silvery giggle that made Tom’s flesh goosebump all over.

‘I am?’

‘Oh, yes! You have to warm the audience up, you know.’

‘I hadn’t thought about that,’ Tom said, feeling his forehead was now doing a rather good impression of Niagara Falls.

‘But you’ll be fine, I’m sure.’

‘Nicole!’ Another female voice sounded outside Tom’s dressing room and, seconds later, a dark-haired beauty peeped into his room. ‘Gosh! It’s Tom Mackenzie, isn’t it? I had no idea you were going to be on the show tonight!’ a breathless Juliette Binoche announced, her French accent setting his heart racing.

‘I know,’ Nicole said, ‘it’s so exciting, isn’t it! He’s first, too.’

‘Oooooo! You can warm the chair up for me, can’t you!’ Juliette smiled, winking a bright eye at him.

‘Juliette and I were just wondering who else was on tonight. She thought it was going to be some boring musician but we’re so glad it’s you.’

‘You are?’ Tom gazed at Nicole and immediately felt his heart accelerate into a speed that couldn’t possibly be considered healthy.

‘Well, ye-es!’ she smiled, her eyes sparkling. ‘We’d
much rather have a hard-working reporter than some vain musician.’

‘But I thought actresses hated reporters.’

‘Think again!’ Nicole said, gliding further into the room and sliding a manicured hand onto his shoulder.

Any minute now, he thought, and he was going to hyperventilate.

‘You’ve got it all wrong,’ Juliette said, placing a hand on his other shoulder, smiling her bewitching smile at him.

‘Mr Mackenzie – it’s time.’ The make-up artist, who’d been happily forgotten since the arrival of the delectable duo, made her presence felt again as she aimed a jet of hairspray at him in a last attempt to get his look just right.

‘Good luck!’ Juliette smiled.

‘Knock ’em dead, gorgeous!’ Nicole laughed.

‘Th-thanks!’ Tom said, getting up and almost tripping over his own feet at the sight of his favourite actresses blowing kisses at him.

And, suddenly, he was out there: in front of the audience, in front of the cameras, in front of respected interviewer of the stars, Andre Levinson. He didn’t even notice the deafening applause until he sat down, his face frozen in terror.

‘It isn’t often,’ Levinson began, ‘that we find a reporter more famous than the story he’s chasing, but this would seem to be the case with you,’ he said, giving Tom an encouraging smile. ‘Have you found the media interest a little strange – as a member of the press, I mean?’

Tom’s senses were so swamped that he wasn’t quite sure he’d heard the question. Visions of Nicole Kidman’s honeyed thigh and Juliette Binoche’s smile refused to leave his mind’s eye.

‘Is it not rather odd being on the receiving end of the press’s interest?’ Levinson prodded again.

‘
Yes!
’ Tom blurted out, feeling more beads of perspiration battling through the make-up. ‘It is,’ he said, feeling himself floundering helplessly. ‘After years of chasing other people, it is a little surreal to be on the front page of the nationals yourself.’ There, he thought, he was pulling through. He was going to be just fine.

‘So how does it feel to be a heart-throb?’ Levinson asked with a light smile.

Tom grinned. ‘Well, what can I say? I don’t think you can really take that kind of adoration seriously, can you?’

‘Now,’ Levinson said, leaning forward slightly in his chair and steepling his fingers, ‘a little bird told me that you’re not only a national heart-throb and a great reporter but something of a virtuoso with the guitar?’

Tom felt himself blushing. ‘Well, one doesn’t like to boast…’

‘I’m sure our audience would be delighted to hear you,’ Levinson smiled, motioning to an awaiting band ready to take up the music. There was a ripple of applause, a few women even screamed.

Tom looked at Levinson who was clapping and nodding towards the stage. Well, Tom thought, there was no point in denying fate, was there, and, with the ease of a superstar, he walked towards the stage.

The studio lights dimmed and he found himself standing in a cool blue light, his fingers strumming, his throat huskily finding the notes he’d rehearsed so often in the shower. It was a perfect moment and he lost himself to it completely until his three and a half minutes of wonderment was up.

And then something truly amazing happened. The audience screamed. Tom Mackenzie was a hit! And, from the hysteria of the women in the audience, he was going to become a huge star. Offstage, he could hear phones ringing. Producers, record companies, even Chris Isaak – they all wanted him. The phones wouldn’t stop. Ringing. Ringing. Ringing…

‘Da-aaaa-ad!’

Tom woke, his heart thudding wildly, his breath coming short and sharp. Where was he? What was going on? What had happened to the audience? To Nicole? To Juliette? Where was his guitar?

And then he saw it: sitting on the floor at the end of the bed – where he’d left it the night before.

‘
Dad!
’ Flora shouted. ‘Your alarm’s been going for ages! And you were singing in your sleep again! It was terrible! You never sing in tune in your sleep.’

Tom rubbed his eyes at his rude awakening. God almighty. He wasn’t on
Levinson
at all. It was Wednesday morning, and he’d woken up in a cheap bed and breakfast on the outskirts of Manchester and, what was even worse, he knew that he wasn’t going to be interviewed on
Levinson
. He wasn’t going to meet Nicole Kidman or Juliette Binoche, he wasn’t going to be asked to sing, and he wasn’t going to be discovered.

He was going to be interviewed, all right, but it was on
Susanna
: a chat show which was indistinguishable from all the other chat shows plaguing daytime TV. It aired at two in the afternoon and was notorious for having row upon row of dirty old men leering down the young presenter’s blouse.

‘Daddy?’ Flora interrupted.

‘Yes?’

‘Do you think anyone famous will be on
Susanna?
’

‘No,’ Tom said. ‘I bloody well don’t,’ he added under his breath as he headed into the bathroom for a shave.

Carolyn could think of no worse fate than spending her summer holidays trapped in a car with Marty, Magnus and Old Bailey.

‘You should’ve turned left there,’ Old Bailey barked from the back seat. ‘It’s quicker by half a mile.’

‘Do
you
want to drive, Granddad?’

Old Bailey harrumphed. ‘I’m only saying, if you want to save on petrol—’

‘Granddad!’

‘I’m only saying.’

Carolyn sighed and stared out of the window at the landscape vanishing fast behind them as Marty stepped on it. They were only twenty miles down the M6 from Carlisle and, already, it was mutiny in the Mini. She hadn’t wanted to come on the trip at all but neither had she wanted to stay at home. Firstly, she’d decided that if she stayed close to Marty she could keep Molly informed of his every move. Now that Molly had a mobile phone, it would be easy to keep in touch with her and make sure that she was one step ahead of the Bailey men. Secondly, she hadn’t wanted to stay at home alone after what had happened that morning.

Marty had been haranguing her about leaving early and had almost hammered the bathroom door down.

‘I’ll be out in a minute,’ Carolyn had called back. One minute. Yes – that was all she needed – one minute of quiet pacing, of running her hands through her hair and of picking the browned ends off the spider plant.

One minute; that was enough. Enough for a little blue line to change her life.

She was pregnant.