Watching Willow Watts (3 page)

She went next door
and navigated up the narrow staircase to her room under the eaves. Now, where had she put that laptop? Sadness curled through her stomach as she recalled the last time she had used it: to Google Alex. The search had brought up a photo of him attending a benefit organised by his London architects’ firm. His hand had been resting on the shoulder of a posh, blonde woman, who was looking up at him with laughing, loving eyes:
Claire
. Even though Willow and Alex had been broken up for almost a year and a half, it had hurt so much she’d slammed the top closed and kicked it away from her . . . ah, here it was, under the bed. She grabbed it and wiped dust off the top.

Back in the shop, Willow
pushed aside a massive elephant tusk and plugged in the computer. ‘Right. Let me see this for myself.’ The pair listened to the rattle of the ancient machine – a dinosaur in laptop years – as it booted up. Then Willow Googled YouTube+Belcherton, hoping the video wouldn’t be too hard to find.

T
here it was, right above the link for the article in
The Daily Post
proclaiming Belcherton as Britain’s ugliest village. Holding her breath, Willow clicked the video link.

‘
See!
’ Paula crowed, pointing at the YouTube counter. ‘And oh my God, it’s up to forty thousand views now. You’re going viral.’

Willow stared at
the numbers. Forty thousand views! Clicking the ‘play’ button, the two of them watched the mead sequence, the cake, the jelly, the tea . . . Willow grimaced as she appeared with Marilyn’s image floating above her.

Paula tapped the screen. ‘Have a look at
the comments.’

Willow scrolled down, eyes popping as she read the first comment underneath the video. MarilynAdoration69 wrote that if, after years of silence, Marilyn chose to appear while Willow was singing, it could only mean she was designating Willow as her new ‘planetary soul rep’. And comment after comment reaffirmed it! Maybe these people
were
smoking something dodgy.

‘
I can’t believe it,’ Willow breathed, shaking her head as she continued through the trail of comments. The whole thing was just too surreal to take seriously.

‘
It’s crazy, hey? In a billion years, I’d never have imagined a video of you going viral. You’re a superstar!’ Paula grinned. ‘We need to celebrate. Got any wine? And I’m starving. You wouldn’t have anything to snack on, would you?’ Paula was always hungry, a feeling Willow could barely recall. Most the time, her tummy rumbled with anxiety, not hunger.

‘
Come on, then.’ Willow
beckoned her friend through the adjoining door. ‘I’m just about to cook for Dad. Why don’t you join us?’

‘
S
pag bol?’ Paula raised an eyebrow hopefully. It was the only thing Willow didn’t burn.

‘
Sure, if you want.
’ She’d have to run to the off-licence for some spaghetti, but the dish wouldn’t take long to knock up.

‘
You’re the fabbest friend ever,’ Paula said, throwing herself onto the sofa. ‘Just remember me when you’re famous.’

Willow rolled her eyes as she went into the kitchen to check for mince. ‘Famous. Yeah, right.’

Early t
he next morning, Willow opened the front door of the antique shop and settled into the desk. Forcing herself to look at the account books again, she prayed for divine inspiration. There had to be some way to get the money together without talking to her father – she couldn’t bear to put more strain on Dad. Willow’s ragged nails crept up to her mouth and she bit at one anxiously. What was she going to do?

The
tinkle of the door bell made her glance up. A large man about her age with shockingly thick ginger hair approached. ‘Hello. I’m looking for a woman by the name of Willow Watts,’ he said in a deep voice.

‘
Yes, that’s me,’ Willow answered slowly, wondering who this man was. Strangers in the village were rare – and even rarer that they asked for her. Could he be Mrs Greene’s mentally unstable grandson? The elderly woman was always trying to set them up on a blind date, claiming ‘the drugs have stabilised him now’. But Willow seemed to recall Mrs Greene said the grandson was undergoing shock therapy these days.

Confusion crossed the man’s face before he rearranged the pleasant features back into a friendly, open expression. ‘
You’re
Willow Watts?’

‘
Yes.’ Willow nodded, wishing whoever this was, he’d get straight to it so she could return to the numbers. ‘Are you doing a survey? If you are, you might want to try Mrs Jones, just down the street. She loves answering questions.’ Ever since her husband died, it was pretty much the only company Mrs Jones got, and Willow made sure to send any visitors her way.

‘
Are you the same Willow Watts in the video on YouTube? You know, the Marilyn Monroe one?’ He peered at her intently.

Oh God
. Had she infringed on a copyright, or something? This man didn’t look like a lawyer, but he did have a whiff of drama about him. ‘Yes, that’s me. I had a wig on at the time,’ she added, clocking his incredulous expression. ‘And about twenty extra pounds of dress.’

Krusty let out a random screech next door and the man jumped.

‘
Sorry about that,’ Willow said, then told herself not to apologise. Paula was always saying she’d apologise to a serial murderer for not being an easier victim. ‘So what did you want to see me about? And I’m sorry’ –
don’t apologise!
– ‘I didn’t catch your name?’

‘
I’m Matthias Clodington, a reporter from CelebrityCrush,’ he said, taking out a miniscule voice recorder. ‘I’m here to talk to you about that video.’

Willow let out her breath with relief that she wasn’t about to get yanked into court, and that the reporter was only here for the YouTube video. Simpson would be thrilled the media was paying attention. ‘You’ll need to talk to Simpson Dyer,’ she said.

‘
Oh, you’ve appointed a spokesperson already?’ Matthias gave her an admiring look. ‘Well, if you could just pass along the number for your representative . . .’

‘
No, no,
’ Willow said quickly. ‘Simpson can fill you in on the village history. You know, all the relevant facts.’

‘
Sure,
I’ll need that for background info. But it’s you I really want to talk to. Our viewers can’t wait to hear the new Marilyn speak.’

Willow’s heart started thumping. ‘The new Marilyn?’ No way was she going to start playing along with that nonsense. ‘I think you’d better find Simpson.’ He could clear up this whole thing and get in a plug for Belcherton, too.

Matthias’s face fell.
‘Fine.’ He thrust a card at her. ‘If you change your mind and you want to chat, I’ll be around for the next few days. Just call, and I can be with you in minutes.’

‘
Thank you for coming,’ Willow
responded, a smile nailed onto her face. This YouTube thing was crazy, but if Simpson managed to get some positive press for the village, then good for him. Sighing, Willow turned back to the columns of numbers in front of her.

CHAPTER THREE

THE SIZZLE OF HER FATHER’S
low-fat bacon filled the small kitchen as Willow placed the strips in a hot frying pan. Without his morning meat treat, her father was like a grizzly bear with a toothache. Willow had told him countless times how bad the salty pork was for his heart, but he never listened. She’d resorted to trimming off as much fat as she could and using one of those foul spray oils.

As the bacon crackled, Willow attacked the roasting pot
soaking in the sink from last night’s dinner. Paula had dropped by again, trading jokes with Dad about how Willow was now Belcherton’s most famous resident. The council might even erect a blue plaque, they’d laughed. According to her friend, the YouTube video was up to almost a hundred thousand views – apparently, it was ‘trending’, whatever that meant. The whole thing was so bizarre, Willow couldn’t begin to grasp people
actually
believed she was the film icon. There’s naught as queer as folk, her dad had said, and she couldn’t agree more.

A sharp knock on the door interrupted
her thoughts. Wiping her hands on the grease-splattered apron, she hurried through to the lounge.

‘
Oh, hello!’ she said in surprise. Simpson stood in the doorway, dressed in his usual three-piece suit.

‘
Good morning. Can I come in? I have an official matter to discuss with you.’

‘
Of course.’ Willow
beckoned him inside and onto the sofa. ‘Have a seat.’

Simpson sniffed the air. ‘Is that bacon? Smells delicious.’

‘
Would you like some?’ Willow asked, trying not to think about the stack of paperwork waiting next door.

‘
Just a spot of tea would suffice.’ Simpson crossed his legs and leaned back. ‘Thank you.’

Willow nodded. ‘
Sure.’ She hurried into the kitchen and turned on the kettle.

‘
Tea
coming up,’ she said, settling into a chair across from Simpson. ‘So what can I do for you?’ Please, not the committee meeting report. Mrs Greene had asked her to type it up, but she hadn’t had a chance yet.

‘
I wanted to talk to you about the YouTube video,’ Simpson said, his eyes locked onto hers.

‘
Oh. Okay.
Was the reporter disappointed when you told him that image wasn’t really a ghost?’ Willow couldn’t help shaking her head again at the ridiculousness of it all.

‘
Well
.’ Simpson drummed his fingers on the bureau beside him. ‘Actually, that’s what I wanted to discuss. You see, I didn’t
exactly
explain what that image was.’

Oh God
. So people still thought it was a ghost? That explained the ‘trending’, anyway. ‘Why not?’

‘
S
ince that video went live, we’ve already doubled the number of visitors to the information centre over last year.’

‘
W
ouldn’t take much,’ Willow said wryly. Given that they’d only had two ‘tourists’ last year – a Greek couple who’d made a wrong turn – that would make a grand total of four people.

‘
I know, but still.’ Simpson’s eyes shone. ‘There are plenty of comments on YouTube from people saying they’re going to make a pilgrimage here. The popularity of this video is a wonderful opportunity for the village to finally host more tourists.’

Willow turned his words over
in her head, trying not to let her scepticism show. It was one thing for people to write on a YouTube site they were planning to come, and another for it actually to happen. She couldn’t see the village swamped with fans like Simpson anticipated.

‘
And, well.’ Simpson dropped his head. ‘The council told me last month if I didn’t increase Belcherton’s tourist trade, they’d cut my position.’ He glanced up at her. ‘Just don’t tell any media what that image really is. Please?’

H
ow could she refuse that? She didn’t want poor Simpson to lose his job. Fingers crossed he was right about people coming.

‘
Okay,’ Willow said, laying a hand on Simpson’s arm. ‘I won’t say anything.’

‘
T
hank you, my dear.’ Simpson sighed, his face relaxing. ‘There’s just one more thing.’

‘
What?’ Willow asked
, instantly suspicious. She should have known it wouldn’t be as easy as keeping quiet.

‘
T
hat reporter did say he’d have a stronger story if you spoke to him.’ Simpson threw her a hopeful look. ‘His viewers want to hear you speak. You won’t have to do much; just answer a few questions. And it would help more people hear about the village.’

‘
But Simpson, don’t you think once people see me
without the costume’ – Willow gestured toward her brown hair and skinny frame – ‘they’ll know there’s no way I could be the next Marilyn? It might be safest to stick to the YouTube video.’

Simpson was shaking his head. ‘I don’t think so, dear. If people are capable of believing that image is a ghost communicating from the great beyond, they’re certainly not going to question you. It would mean a lot to me – and the village – if you could do this one interview.’

Willow met his pleading eyes.
‘Fine. I guess I can.’ She still couldn’t believe people’s vision would be so impaired they’d think she was Marilyn Monroe, but if Simpson thought it would help . . . well, why not.

Simpson’s face lit up. ‘Brilliant. He’s right outside.’

What? She had to do the interview
now
? For a second, she wanted to throttle Simpson for not giving her more time to mentally prepare. Sure, it was just questions and answers, but she didn’t even like having her photo taken, let alone going on television. Given a choice, she’d prefer to remain as inconspicuous as possible. That was why she loved arranging flowers – she could stay in the background and let her creations speak for themselves.

‘
How did you know I’d say yes?’ Bit of a risk, asking a reporter to hang around and wait outside without even knowing her answer.