Watching Willow Watts (21 page)

‘
That was crazy!
’ She smiled up at Jay, but he was busy scanning a crumpled sheet of paper.

‘
You’re late. Come meet Dean. Then we
need to redo your hair and make-up’ – he eyed the smeared costume and sweaty brow – ‘and get you two into sound check. He’s waiting.’

‘
Okay
.’ Willow tried to ignore Jay’s abrupt tone. He was in full-on agent mode; she couldn’t expect him to be all lovey-dovey.

She followed
him across the grass toward the giant stage, quickening her pace to keep up. They hurried around the back and entered a huge marquee divided into different compartments and dressing rooms. Jay stopped outside a curtain hung with a sparkly star and the words ‘Dean Denner’ done up in glitter.

‘
He travel
s with his own sign,’ Jay whispered. ‘We’ll get you one, too.’

Willow thought the idea pathetic, but she smiled and nodded.

‘
Dean?’ Jay called in a placatory tone she hadn’t heard from him before. ‘Willow’s here to meet you.’

Willow held her breath as she waited for Dean to appear, wondering what he’d look like. Well, obviously he’d resemble JFK, but how much? She had to admit, she was nervous about working with a big star. What if he thought she was absolute rubbish?

The curtains parted and a tangerine man –
with thick, side-parted hair and a face plastered with even more foundation than hers – appeared. Despite his orange tint, he was the spitting image of the former American president.

‘
Here, hold this.’ Dean shoved
a bow tie at Willow then turned back toward the mirror, dabbing more foundation onto his pancaked face.

‘
Dean, this is Willow.’ Jay dragged her into the small space, which reeked of an unpleasant mixture of cologne and make-up.

Dean didn’t even
look up from pinching a gigantic spot on his chin. ‘Bloody thing,’ he muttered. He swung around to face Jay. ‘Where’s that make-up artist you promised me? First the helicopter is late – and by the way, Cava is
not
champagne – and then there’s no one here to help me get ready. What kind of second-rate festival is this?’

Willow tried to hide
her shock at Dean’s strong Essex accent, so at odds with his appearance.

‘
I’m very sorry,’ Jay said in an anxious, almost whiny tone that made Willow jerk toward him in surprise. ‘I’ll get on it right away. I’ll just leave you two to get acquainted and go find Charlie.’ He disappeared between the curtains.

‘
But Jay, wait . . .’
No way did she want to be left alone with this man, but Jay had already rushed off.

‘
So, um,’ she began, ‘I guess we’re going to sing the Happy Birthday song together?’ God, what a dumb thing to say. Of course they were going to sing the Happy Birthday song together. ‘Er, how long have you been doing this?’

Dean snorted. ‘Look,
Marilyn
, most of us in the business have worked hard to get to where we are today. I started out performing on a bloody cruise ship in China! You wouldn’t believe it, but people there adore JFK.’ He shook his head. ‘There are millions of Marilyn Monroe impersonators putting in their time. Then you waltz in and become famous overnight – without paying your dues.’ His tone was bitter.

‘
I’m sorry.’
Don’t apologise!
Willow straightened her spine. ‘But I can’t control what’s popular on YouTube, you know. And if the same thing happened to you, I’m sure you would have jumped at the chance.’ Anyway, it wasn’t like she was doing this for fun. She was doing it for Dad.

As she watched
Dean preen in the mirror, she realised it wasn’t so much that he looked exactly like JFK. It was more that he’d captured the President’s essence perfectly, transforming himself into the great man regardless of his exterior.

‘
W
hat’s it like, working as an impersonator full-time, for so many years?’ she asked. ‘I mean, do you start to lose . . . you?’ It was something she’d been wondering since shedding the Marilyn attire and wandering up to the site in her own clothes. She’d felt so much more like Willow, and that had faded the second she’d shoved herself and her fake booty back into the costume. How would she feel after spending a few months as Marilyn? Would she even remember how to be herself?

Dean applied more gel to his already stiff hair and smiled at himself in the mirror. ‘I’ve been doing this for fifteen years. And there are some days I actually forget I’m not JFK, that’s how talented I am.’

God.
Willow couldn’t even imagine that.

‘
But listen, that’s a good thing,’ Dean continued. ‘Why would I want to remember who I was before this? A pudgy bloke from Essex, with nothing. As JFK, people
respect
me.’ He met her eyes in the mirror. ‘And look at you. No offence, honey, but you’re living in this dump in the country, doing nothing. Then you become a sensation, and your life is changed. Why would you want to be plain old whatever-your-name-is, when you can have people worshipping you as Marilyn?’

Plain old whatever-your-name-
is?
Sure, she hadn’t led the most exciting life by showbiz standards, but it had been everything she’d wanted: flowers, a wonderful man, a budding career . . .

‘
I’m so sorry I’m late. Took me ages to get down the high street, there’s so many people.’ A frantic Charlie Tatty appeared from behind the curtain, wringing his hands. ‘You’re Dean Denner. Charlie Tatty, hair and make-up. It’s an absolute honour to meet you.’

As Dean ordered Charlie around with all the subtlety of a machine gun, Willow backed out of the small cubicle and wandered down the corridor, trying to ignore the rising nausea as the concert loomed nearer.

‘
Ah, there you are.’ Jay slung an arm around her waist and Willow felt herself relax a bit. ‘Your dressing room is just down here. Scrub off that pink stuff and put on this’ – he shoved a white satin dress at her – ‘and Charlie will fix your hair and make-up once he’s finished with Dean. We’ve got about ten minutes until the sound check.’

Willow nodded as Jay bustled off, then turned to make her way to the dressing room. Inside the cubicle, she stared at her reflection in the mirror. It had only been a couple weeks, but it was hard to remember what she looked like with dark hair. And with her curvy new figure, the days when she’d been a beanpole seemed ages ago.

Why the hell would you want to be plain old Willow?
Because that was
her
, not some blonde, over-made-up film icon who wasn’t even living. She’d much rather be Willow than Marilyn any day! Sighing, she recalled the conversation with her father last week, when he’d said how proud Mum had been of her flower career.
That
was who she wanted to be again – the Willow who felt alive and happy.

A
ll this isn’t forever, she reminded herself as she wiped off the pink paint and pulled on the satin dress. Just get the money you need, and then you can think about the future.

‘
Sound check.’ Jay appeared, motioning her forward through the corridors of the backstage area and onto the stage. Willow stood still for a minute, taking in the vast empty field splaying out before her. What would this be like when it was filled with the thousands of screaming fans she’d seen lining the streets and the motorway beyond? Her heart started beating a million miles a minute and the edges of her vision went black.

‘
Willow. Willow!’ Jay grabbed her sho
ulders and shook her. ‘We’ve got a sound check to do, and then you have to give the performance of a lifetime. Don’t even dream of fucking it up for me.’

What?
She turned toward him in surprise, his harsh tone snapping her back to reality.

‘
I mean for you, of course,’ Jay
said in a softer voice. ‘Sorry to sound so intense, but I’ve found from experience it’s what people need when they get nervous.’ He shoved a bottle of water at her. ‘Drink this down. You’re probably just dehydrated. I know you’ll be fine.’

Willow
gulped a few mouthfuls, feeling slightly better once the cool liquid was inside her. Thank God Jay had known what would get her back on track – she was lucky to have such an experienced agent.

‘
Okay
?’ he asked.

She nodded.

‘
Right.’ Jay motioned to a technician at the side of the stage. ‘Can we get this show on the road?’

The tech
ie nodded. ‘Ready when you are.’

CHAPTER S
IXTEEN

THANK GOODNESS SHE’D HAD such a big breakfast this morning, Betts thought. Already it was five p.m. and the way she’d been run off her feet, she’d needed all those calories.

Betts
glanced at her watch. Just over an hour before they’d open the gates to the festival site. She’d do a final run-around to make sure all the vendors were in place. Then, she planned to plonk down her lawn-chair beside Dickie’s and enjoy the night, using the fifty-pound stipend she’d earned from this gig to treat her man to a few pints and sausages. It was all going like clockwork so far, and Betts was proud of everything she’d done in such a short time. Fingers crossed the rest of the festival would go off the same.

From her location just inside the main gate,
she could see waves of people streaming down the high street toward the site. It was almost impossible to believe how many had turned out for this, despite having the estimated numbers ahead of time. She’d met a fan today who’d even travelled in the back of a truck from Azerbaijan – wherever the heck that was – just to make it! Although she’d always considered herself a staunch Marilyn fan, Betts was starting to think it was a tiny bit sad people worshipped someone dead
that
much. Now that she had Dickie, she had to admit a lot could be said for spending time with real people.

Betts
smiled as she thought of dear Dickie. Who knew what the future held, but she loved being with him and–

‘
Who’s in charge here?’ A swarthy police officer interrupted her thoughts.

Betts cast a look around, but Simpson was nowhere to be found and Jay was up at the stage.
‘You can talk to me, if you like,’ she said, flapping her blouse up and down to get some air. ‘Whew, hot today, isn’t it?’

‘
I’ve had a report there’s an illegal worker employed on festival staff,’ the man said, flashing his badge at her.

Betts laughed. ‘Illegal worker
? No way! Everyone on staff is from the village. Well, except me, of course. I’ve come all the way from Georgia!’ She smiled proudly, expecting an admiring response at how far she’d travelled.

But the man
only narrowed his eyes, and the circle of officers accompanying him closed in even tighter. ‘Really. You wouldn’t happen to be’ – he looked down at his pad – ‘Betts Johnson, would you?’

Betts puffed herself up proudly. Already people were hearing what a good job she was doing! ‘I sure am.’ She stuck out a hand. ‘Nice to meet you.’

‘
And
what exactly is the purpose of your visit to the United Kingdom?’ the man asked, ignoring her hand.

Betts let it drop to her side. Sometimes Brits didn’t know what to do with her American friendliness, and this guy was one of them. ‘To see Marilyn, of course.’

‘
Right, right.’ The man scribbled down that information in his notebook. Gosh, they were thorough here, weren’t they?

‘
And you are employed by the Festival?’ he asked.

Betts nodded. ‘Yes. I’m in charge of hospitality.’

‘
And you’re receiving payment in exchange for your work?’

‘
Well, not much
for the amount of work I’ve been doing,’ she huffed. ‘If I’d known how much was involved, I would have held out for more!’ She grinned and waited for him to smile back, but instead he was reaching into his pocket . . . and snapping handcuffs on her wrists! What on earth?

‘
Betts Johnson, I’m arresting you for working without a valid visa in the United Kingdom,’ the man said, trying to close the cuff around her plump wrist. ‘
You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defense if you do not mention, when questioned, something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.
’

‘
Valid visa!’ Betts struggled against the man. ‘But I’m here on a holiday.’

‘
Exactly,’ the man responded
. ‘And if you’re here on a holiday, you’re not supposed to be working. In accordance with the UK Immigration law, you will be removed back to your country of origin immediately.’

‘
Removed back to my country of origin?’ Betts squealed. ‘I can’t go home! I have a festival to run!’ And Dickie. The thought clawed at her heart and she almost went limp at the pain accompanying it.
Dickie.

The immigration officer rolled his eyes. ‘Not anymore, you don’t. Now, do you have your passport on your person?’

‘
On my person? No, no
, it’s back at home.’ Her heart sank as she realised she’d be leaving that home very soon. ‘But wait, can’t you give me a few more days? You know, to say goodbye to people and wrap up loose ends. I promise I won’t go anywhere.’