Authors: Tanya Landman
Then disaster had struck – at least for Angelica. At the beginning of June this year her well-past-fifty-massively-rich-and-famous husband had met a totally-obscure-but-young-and-pretty cocktail waitress – and dumped his wife-and-childhood-sweetheart as fast as a fresh cowpat. After a whirlwind courtship of precisely three and a half weeks, Bill Strummer had divorced Angelica and proposed to Josie Diamond. Hence the hastily-arranged-but-highly-romantic wedding on a tiny Greek island that we’d be heading for the second the plane took off.
Josie Diamond had now been written about in every gossip column going, and they all went something like this:
That girl’s barely twenty if she’s a day – young enough to be his daughter! An absolute nobody who’d do anything to get famous! She may look sweet and innocent, but she’s got her pretty little paws on one of the biggest fortunes in showbiz! She’s a heartless homebreaker. A shameless gold-digger! Bill Strummer must be having a mid-life crisis, trading his wife in for a younger model. What on earth does he think he’s doing?!
To be perfectly honest, you didn’t have to look very hard to see where Josie’s appeal lay. Angelica had once been pretty, but the years hadn’t been kind to her. In contrast, Josie was as fresh and unspoilt as a ripe peach. She had long, dead-straight, naturally blonde hair, brilliant baby-blue eyes and a complexion my gran would have described as “English rose”. There were dozens of photos in all the magazines of Josie and Bill looking adoringly at each other, and I could see that whatever nasty things people had written, they were both totally besotted. Some magazines also carried photos of Bill and Angelica before the split, and they made interesting viewing. I’m fascinated by people’s behaviour and how much they can say without speaking a word. It seemed to me that Bill had lost interest in his wife long before he’d met Josie. There were several shots of Angelica smiling lovingly up at Bill, but he wasn’t looking back at her – he was staring sullenly straight at the camera, his bodyguard looming just behind his right shoulder like a dark shadow.
The Bill and Josie affair (or Billosie, as the tabloids wittily renamed the couple) had caused a media explosion. Shockwaves had vibrated through the showbiz world like a scale-nine earthquake. According to one newspaper, all the A-list-celebrity guests Bill had invited to the wedding had point blank refused to go. The only ones willing to make the journey to Greece were Z-list wannabes who hoped that some of Bill’s fame would rub off on them.
I turned to
Hi!
magazine, which had an exclusive deal to cover the wedding and had devoted its entire issue to Bill and Josie’s love story. As far as I could see, the Big Day was going to be a sort of cross between Barbie’s Dream Wedding and
Mamma Mia!
Bill had hired a luxury cliff-top villa to accommodate their guests and the ceremony would take place in a little chapel at the top of the mountain. Then there was going to be a barbecue followed by a party on the beach with Bill singing live.
As I read through the article I discovered that Josie wasn’t exactly the shy and retiring type. She’d told her friends in eye-poppingly-intimate detail the whole history of her love affair with Bill, and they, thoughtfully, had related every last morsel to the
Hi!
journalist. “Josie’s loved him since she was seven years old. She used to have his poster on her wall in the children’s home. She kissed it every night and dreamt about the day she’d finally get to meet him.” She’d got her wish when she’d been waitressing at the awards ceremony where Bill won a gong for Lifetime Achievement. “She knew right away that he was her one and only. Her wedding will be the happiest day of her life.” Their first steamy kiss had happened backstage that same night (“It was so hot, they nearly set off the smoke alarms!”) and he’d written a song for her right then and there on the back of the menu. “Ain’t No Escaping My Love” had gone straight to number one. And now, apparently, they were already trying for a baby. (“Bill’s always wanted kids. He’s dying to have his own little Strummette. Josie is desperate to be preggy!”)
“Euw!” I exclaimed. “Way too much information!”
“Where?” asked Graham, closing
Computing Weekly
. Curiosity had finally got the better of him.
“Take a look at that.” I handed him the magazine and picked up a newspaper, which carried the other side of the story. There weren’t any interviews with Angelica herself, but plenty of her friends had talked indignantly to the reporter. The divorce settlement had been more than generous – Bill had handed over the whole of his mansion and half his fortune the day he moved out – but money wasn’t everything. His ex-wife was miserable and everyone knew it. A showbiz “insider” said, “I’m frightened that she might end up hurting herself. She’s desperately unhappy.” “Sources close to her”, “concerned friends” and “anxious relatives” all agreed that she was devastated. “Bill was hers and she was his,” said one. “He was her now-and-for-ever love,” explained another. “She never wanted anyone else,” declared a third.
There were snatched paparazzi shots showing Angelica in varying states of distress. Tearfully leaving her house. At the wheel of her car – streams of mascara making broad black lines down her face. The worst was of her staggering through a bluebell wood. The flowers were just starting to bloom but she was clearly oblivious to the beauty of the scene. Her hair was in disarray, her shirt was coming undone so you could see her bra and her mouth was frozen open in what was obviously a cry of distress. Everything about her screamed pure misery. There was something very badly wrong about that photo. It didn’t feel right to see anyone in that state – it was like walking in on them sitting on the toilet. I closed the paper.
We still hadn’t taken off. The plane was delayed – some passenger or other hadn’t boarded when they were supposed to. The insanely cheerful grins had slipped off the flight attendants’ faces. They’d put a call out but no one had shown up and now we’d missed our slot and the other passengers were starting to complain.
Graham began tutting and checking his watch, and Sally was jiggling fretfully. “Tessa will be furious if we get to Athens late,” she grumbled. “I suppose the helicopter will wait, but I don’t know how I’ll manage to get everything done on time. I’ll have to start at the crack of dawn as it is. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea…”
“Why can’t we just take off?” I asked. “Surely it’s their own fault if they can’t get here on time? The rest of us managed it.”
“Presumably the missing person’s luggage is in the hold,” replied Graham. “With the threat of global terrorism, it’s not possible to embark unless every passenger who checked in a suitcase is on board. Otherwise it would be a foolproof method of planting a bomb.”
“Oh,” I said, wishing I hadn’t asked. I wasn’t a nervous traveller but the thought of being blasted out of the sky was enough to make anyone uneasy. To take my mind off it I picked up another magazine.
This article took the “Angelica’s perilously close to killing herself” angle one degree further, directing the threat of violence towards someone else. A “close personal friend” described how she’d been with Angelica when Josie Diamond had appeared on TV. Angelica had hurled her mug of tea at the screen. And then yelled, loud and clear, “I’m going to wring that little tart’s neck!”
Which I found extremely alarming. Because just then the missing passenger finally showed up, white-faced, stick-thin and shaking like a leaf in a storm-force wind.
There we were, about to fly off to Greece on the eve of Bill and Josie’s wedding.
And the person we’d all been waiting for was Angelica Strummer.
When
Angelica stepped onto the plane the cabin fell completely silent. Then people began to cough and rustle their newspapers to cover up the fact that they’d all been staring, open-mouthed.
Muttering apologies to the flight attendants, Angelica slid into a seat just across the aisle and slightly in front of us, explaining to the passenger next to her that she had a terribly upset stomach.
“She must have got caught short,” I whispered to Graham.
“I suppose so,” he whispered back. “If you’ve got to go, you’ve got to go. Bit embarrassing for her, though.”
I glanced at Angelica. She was sitting bolt upright, her back not quite touching the seat, arms clasped tightly across her chest as if she was literally holding herself together. Her whole face was screwed up with intense concentration and her lips were moving, as if in prayer.
“Do you think she might be scared of flying?”
“It’s a common phobia,” Graham replied. “And it might explain the stomach upset. When it comes to fear, I believe that kind of physical reaction isn’t unusual.”
I kept a close eye on Bill’s ex-wife over the top of my magazine. When we’d taken off and the seatbelt lights went out, everyone in the cabin visibly relaxed, unbuckling straps and reclining seats, making themselves comfortable for the journey. Everyone but Angelica, that is. She remained in the same position, as still as a statue. Only her lips moved. I couldn’t hear the words, but she was muttering something to herself, over and over again, which I thought could mean one of two things. She was either (a) really frightened about flying (in which case, why had she got on a plane in the first place?), or (b) up to something.
Once we’d reached the right altitude the cabin crew brought out a trolley and started wheeling it down the aisle. When it stopped beside Angelica, the flight attendant put a hand on her arm to attract her attention. Angelica looked up and there was a flash of something desperate in her eyes that made the attendant take a step back. She refused every freebie on offer with a miniscule shake of her head, then closed her eyes again and carried on muttering, arms even more tightly wrapped around herself. It was as if she was concentrating all her energies on something important and couldn’t be distracted for even one second. It was kind of spooky and reminded me of the English homework we’d been working on when Tessa’s call had come through. As I watched I began to think Angelica looked less and less like a terrified traveller and more and more like a witch. Maybe she wasn’t praying; maybe she was putting a curse on something. Or someone. Goosebumps popped up all over my arms.
“What on earth is she doing here?” I muttered to Graham. “Do you reckon she’s going to the wedding?”
“No! Can’t be…” Graham pulled a face. “It says in
Hi!
that the divorce was amicable – at least on Bill’s part – but surely it can’t have been
that
amicable. Can you imagine anyone wanting their ex-wife at their wedding?”
“No… It’s a bit of a weird coincidence, though, isn’t it? Angelica being on the same flight as us?”
“It is,” said Graham thoughtfully. “And it’s the kind of coincidence that’s inclined to make me feel apprehensive.”
“Me too.”
Things got a whole lot more awkward when we landed in Athens. For a few minutes we lost sight of Angelica – she nipped to the Ladies as soon as we got off the plane – and then we couldn’t see her in all the crush and confusion of going through passport control.
The minute we entered the arrivals lounge I noticed a huge moustached man lurking by the barrier. An impressively deep tan highlighted the contours of his razor-sharp cheekbones, and even though the sun had gone down long ago he was wearing very dark glasses. He was holding a large square of cardboard with “Sally Marshall” scrawled hastily across it in marker pen.
“Oh!” exclaimed Graham’s mum, stepping towards him nervously. “That’s me. Are you…?”
“Gregor Ravavich,” he replied smoothly, removing his sunglasses for a moment and throwing a cheesy wink at Sally. “Come.” He jerked his head towards the exit. “You are with me now.”
We fell into single file, trooping obediently along behind him, but we’d barely walked three metres when we heard someone calling out his name.
“Gregor! Gregor!” The voice wasn’t particularly commanding but it made him stop in his tracks. He turned. We all did. And there was Angelica Strummer, walking carefully towards us as if the linoleum floor was an ice rink.
“Holy Mother!” whispered Gregor, aghast. “What is
she
doing here?” The blood drained from his face, leaving his suntan looking like a bad paint job. Then he flushed so violently he went almost purple.
Angelica held her hands out towards him and there was nothing he could do but take them and graciously accept the air kisses she bestowed on both cheeks.
“Thanks for coming. Shall we get going?”
Gregor didn’t say a thing. He just stood there, looking horrified, as Angelica linked her arm through his. She gave a small, insistent tug and we all moved off again. The super-suntanned man seemed powerless to resist. As for us – well, Angelica hadn’t even glanced at Sally, let alone me or Graham. It was weird, but it didn’t seem to me that she was being deliberately rude. It was more that we were invisible to her. Somehow she’d got it into her head that Gregor had come to collect her, and he was way too polite to put her straight.
I’ve noticed that when grown-ups are really embarrassed, they do one of two things: either they try to wriggle out of the situation or they pretend it isn’t happening. Gregor had apparently decided on the second option. With a determined shrug of the shoulders that said “Not my problem” as clearly as if he’d shouted the words out loud, he allowed Angelica to come along.
Sally, on the other hand, attempted to take evasive action. Surreptitiously pulling her mobile from her bag, she tapped in a number and started whispering frantically into it. I could only hear her half of the conversation, but it went like this:
“Tessa! It’s me. Sally. Sally Marshall. The
chef
! Yes. No. It was fine. Yes. Bit late but we’re on our way. Listen, Angelica’s here.
Angelica
… You know. Thought I should warn you.”
“No idea. I haven’t talked to her. But she seems to be coming with us.”
“Well, Gregor’s letting her. Yes, I’m sure Josie
will
go mad, but what do you expect him to do? Rugby-tackle her?”
“No, I
can’t
!”