In Love with a Superstar Ch. 03

She was sat in the kitchen eating breakfast when she her mother walked in chatting on the phone.

"Yes Darling! I'm so happy that you're having a great time, Disneyland AND Parc Asterix? How wonderful for you... yes Grampy T is out in the garage, Aunty Elisabeth is having breakfast, she's just here. When are you coming home? ...Oh that's lovely Cathy Darling, well you have a great time... is she oh that's lovely for you, then you give Sarah my love then honey," she smiled, "OK Baby we'll see you in a few days..."

Elisabeth froze.

"What was that about Sarah?" said Elisabeth.

"Bruce's friend Sarah, you know that someone set fire to her house don't you?"

"No..." she flustered with way too much innocence, then added, "well I knew about the fire, just didn't know..." she paused, going with, "who was involved."

"Well Cathy said that she'll be living with Bruce until her house is repaired..." Her spoon fell into her bowl with a clatter, "Elisabeth Darling, are you OK?"

"Of course I am," she snapped, "Why wouldn't I be?" She stood up.

"But you haven't finished your..." her Mother said to her daughter's retreating back. She had long since stopped trying to understand her moody daughter, who had actually seemed a bit better in the last month and was up and about early most days and evidently really enjoying her new 'job'. She cleared away for half empty cup and the bowl, wiping the milk and cereal that had splashed.

"Martin!" she all but screamed down the phone, "she's fucking living with him! She's NOT living with her parents, SHE'S living with HIM!"

Martin was quick on the uptake,

"Of course she is," he oiled, "Bruce feels responsible for her after the letters, the car and the fire; the Bruce we know and love would do that wouldn't he?"

" But... but..."

"Wouldn't he?!"

"Yes, I suppose so," she said chastened.

"And it means that our plan is finally coming to it's fruition Darling Elisabeth, your time is getting closer by the day honey!"

"It is?"

"Of cooooourse!" he oiled again, "we now know where she will be when she's not at work, you don't have to patrol the streets between the school, her place and his place, and when I give the word we can HAVE HER!"

"Yeah!" said Elisabeth.

"Can I rely on you Elisabeth?"

"Of course Martin, this is for Bruce and Catherine."

"And you?"

"And me of course," she giggled coyly.

"And I can rely on you 100%?"

"100%"

"To do what must be done?"

"Whatever it takes. For Bruce, Catherine and me."

"Well done Elisabeth, you need to show that strength you used when you burned her house down. You need to prove that strength to Bruce and your little Catherine..."

"Yeah," she growled.

"I'll ring you when it's time Elisabeth, there are lots of knives in the kitchen, don't let me down Honey."

"I won't," she said, adding, "or Bruce or Catherine..." by which time he had already disconnected the phone.

Her last entry in her diary listed what Martin had demanded of her and she wrote it all out carefully,

"Thanks to Martin I now know I have the strength and the right to do what must be done. Martin has called and told me to wait until he calls me again. She's left Brucie's place and Martin is trying to get her back there again so I can do what must be done. He has got the police to arrest Brucie so he's well and truly out the way and no blame can fall on him.

I'm sat in my car outside of Bruce's place waiting for her to come back, Martin says all of her stuff is there and she'll have to come back at some time. I'll get her then.

MARTIN SAYS I'VE GOT TO STAY ANGRY!! GOT TO STAY ANGRY - FOR ME, BRUCE AND CATHERINE, ANGRY!!

SHE'S JUST GONE IN!! AND THAT STUPID BABY SITTER HAS LEFT SHOUTING DOWN HER PHONE THAT SHE'S ON HER WAY, NOW IS MY CHANCE! I shall wait a few minutes just in case she comes back..."

The final line was written in a small shakey hand, smudged by drops of water,

"I'm coming Brucie, this is for you and our Catherine, all my love, your Elisabeth..."

The whole diary was entered into evidence by the defence as part mitigation for Elisabeth's 'soundness of mind' and that was pretty much that. Elisabeth was locked away in a secure unit until after the appropriate reports had been read by the judge.

The following Sunday all of the papers, including The Observer that Sarah was reading, printed all or part of an extensive statement issued by Bruce Young explaining that he had gone along with the public persona for a while before he decided that it was damaging his career. He had fallen out with his manager and had told him he would not renew his contract with him. Lonsdale had made threats, both legal and physical to Young's career. At this stage Bruce entered into a secret correspondence with a police inspector regarding Lonsdale. The final straw had been the plot against the life of his fiancée that had become evident through the harrowing events of that summer evening.

As she stared overlong at the picture of him in the paper, her mother reminded her that he probably couldn't find his way here. None of her other friends or family ever could work the tortuous maze of country lanes, two bridges, two cattle grids that had to be passed before reaching the mile and half of track that led to the cottage and Mr Bridge's farm. Later that evening as she pottered around in the kitchen, more favour was added to this theory by the discovery of her hand-drawn map she'd given him in the study notes for their first weekend, still sat in the letter rack with the bills and house paperwork. Mobile phones were out of the question and the only person outside of that farmhouse that knew the telephone number was her sister Caroline and Bruce had no way to contact her either.

As her two weeks recovery came to an end her Mum and the psychologist suggested it was time that Sarah went home, and it was a week before the end of term.

The day before the Review she moved back to her repaired and redecorated flat, and Mum stayed with her for long enough to convince herself that Sarah could manage. There was a box of welcome home cards and a letter from Frank inviting her as guest of honour to the school review, informing her of the time and date and the new code numbers for the school doors. The décor of the flat was fantastic and it seemed three times the size it had been when she'd decorated and furnished it. But then, her budget had been somewhat smaller.

Her Mother had told her what time to be ready for the following day and to be waiting downstairs for her and not to take too long, as her father could never park along her street. That was strange, Dad had never had a problem parking before.

She didn't know exactly how she would deal with Bruce when she saw him, she had not had so much as a telephone call after all. A single get well card from him attached to a huge bunch of red roses had turned up the day after she had woken up had been the only contact since the incident. OK, Colleen had said that he'd been up to his eyeballs in the show, but there had been evenings over those two weekends, although for both of them she had been in Shropshire and out of mobile phone range.

Even though her mind had said that she didn't want to go, her treacherous body showered and got dressed in her favourite Little Black Dress, a Chanel bought in Nice, and she slipped a silk wrap over her shoulders to hide the pale skin that had almost lost the beautiful Mediterranean tan following her period in hospital and confinement to bed.

She left the house half an hour before her Parents were due. She really couldn't stand walking into the school like some new girl with Mum and Dad in tow and on guard. She walked down her street until she reached the main road, and spent some time looking in shop windows it seemed like she hadn't seen in months. Again her body, not in tune with the requirements of her brain, had taken her to the school gates, tonight locked against the cars of the lazier parents that wouldn't walk. The smaller pedestrian gate was open though and she walked through it.

The school had never looked so imposing before, not even on that day eighteen months back when she'd arrived for the interview. She climbed the well-worn steps and she tapped the new code into the door lock and it opened with the same soft clunk, and she stepped into the silent reception hallway.

In her year at St. John's she'd never known it silent. There was always the ringing of phones, the clatter of keyboards, kids at the reception desk or sitting nervously outside offices waiting for their names to be shouted out by one of the year heads, or God forbid, the Headteacher himself.

But tonight, there was no one. The world of St John's it appeared was happening at the main entrance on the other side of the building.

She turned down a side corridor and into the staff room briefly looking at her pigeonhole through force of habit. Across her pigeonhole was a digital picture taken of her in her hospital bed, her tongue pointing at the camera. Written across the picture was 'See you next term!'

In the distance the orchestra seemed to be warming up and for once didn't seem that bad, in fact they sounded better tuning up than they generally did playing tunes.

She sat in the big comfy chair in the big comfy staff room that had so often been a respite from the goings-on and minor dramas of school life, what the hell, this had been a home from home. Although now it could never be that place for her again, as there would always be a bit of him here.

She looked around the room at the photocopier and the filing cabinets and the art projects and she realised that he had infected every part of the building; hell, he had infected her very soul.

As she recuperated, rarely did she think of anything else but him. Her mother would point out that she was staring into space, and not listening to her conversation or even watching the television.

No, she had been thinking about him and what might have been. She'd had it all, and had lots more to come, but she'd blown it. She had said some things, some horrible things, things that even as she'd said them she must have known weren't true and that he wasn't capable of.

As if on cue there was the end of term teachers party pictures from the week before on the notice board with Bruce featured in almost all of them. And there was a signed photograph of him with the addition of 'No sugar in mine!' above his name. The picture was sat next to an enormous steel coffee machine, covered in gadgets and a little plaque that read 'The Bruce Young Memorial Coffee Machine - in happy memory of the money screwed out of him by the St John's tea fund'.

In that staff room the message finally got through all of the mental barriers she had built to impede it - she loved Bruce Young, despite all that she had said to him, and that he had not contacted her, she still loved him with her whole being. The worst of it was no one could blame him if he never spoke to her again after all of the dreadful things she'd said to him and, she reasoned, she had hardly gone out of her way to contact him either.

She opened her locker door to find her ballet shoes, leotard, trainers, all of her spare sports kit and debated putting it all into a bag and sitting down at a computer to write her resignation letter. It would take ten minutes and she'd never need to come back here again, then she remembered that she'd have to make her way across the school to get to her office and get her books and CD's and things, the escape wouldn't be that easy.

She could never work here again though, that was for sure. She had been a media headliner; her mother kept her away from Sunday newspapers other than the Times. But she had seen a TV advert for the one of the tabloid magazines that had one of the grainy London flat balcony photos that Martin Lonsdale must have already sold. Her Mum changed the channel instantly but Sarah could almost hear the words over the antiques programme that appeared. The sexy, twenty-something acting teacher that had stolen Bruce Young's heart and seduced him in the drama workshop during break time and had almost died saving his daughter from a mad knife-wielding maniac.

What chance did she have?

"Sarah!" roared Frank, "Darling, it is so wonderful to see you back on your feet again after all this time, come on it's curtain up in five minutes, you can tell me all your news on the way." She was rushed off in a bustle of good wishes and excitement.

The reason for the excellent music was soon explained. A professional group of musicians were sat on chairs in front of the stage, brass, strings, and even a grand piano. And there, with his bright ginger hair, was the cutest saxophone player she'd ever see.

Sarah stopped at the back of the auditorium,

"I'll sit back here Frank," she said quietly.

"Nonsense, we've got a place of honour for you right down..." he saw the look on her face, "sorry my love, I wasn't thinking. I'll have them bring you a chair back here," he kissed her on the forehead, "You had just better not try and sneak off before I've had a chance to speak to you that's all," he smiled a sad smile.

"OK," she said simply.

A very surprised young year seven lad in a black T-shirt brought her a chair and as she sat down the lights dimmed and the music, a stonking, rip-roaring Hollywood movie style overture perfectly played, rang through the usually tinny and echoy hall through perfectly balanced speakers.

"Ladies and Gentlemen," said a voice as the music reached its crescendo, "Welcome to... a long night in, a Review of the Year at St John's."

The tune 'That's entertainment' rang around the hall and the curtains rolled back to reveal about three dozen pupils from all age ranges.

"the heat is on at St John's,

the teachers they all have stress,

all of the classrooms are all in real mess,

And the pupils are playing aroooouuunnd..."

The children danced and sang, in time and in tune, surely a first certainly in her time here.

The curtains swung closed, and half a minute later swung open again to reveal a group of year sevens in school uniform, standing to attention. A rather tinkly piano played an old fashioned melody and the children took the customary school choir deep breath and started to sing,

"We were really quite scared to come to St J's,

The map they give us was of Hampton Court maze,

The timetable took us from the hall to the showers,

Who'd have thought one day could have 27 hoouuurrrrssss!"

They turned as one and started to walk along the stage heel and toe, cutely. Other children walked across the stage and interacted with them.

Then they piano went from tinkly and badly tuned infant school to cool and clanky jazz club; the lights dimmed and started to flash and each child appeared wearing dark glasses and pork pie hats.

"Please Mr Teacher, take us all back to year six,

Where the school day didn't seem to leave us all in a fix,

We were top of the tree,

The cream of the crop

But now were at the bottom and we want it all to stop..."

Sarah's bottom jaw dropped as they pranced across the stage to the wild guitar, sax and piano solo's, each child in time with the next, some even going so far as to tumble across the stage. The dancing slowed and the melody eased into 'Take me out to the ball game' and three students in the school PE kit took the lead in a fantastic harmony,

"Now we have to play ball games,

Now we have to compete,

Now we have to play ru-u-gby

Netball and hockey with freezing cold feet,

Oh yes we don't mind all the football,

But we'd rather watch from the stands,

It's hard to be full back or goalie,

When your nose has turned blue,

and you can't feel your haaaa-aaanndds!

Oh yes take us back to our primaries

There we knew it was great,

Or you'll see - sir - sometime next year we'll be a bad year eight!"

The three of them struck a pose and the music rose and bounced as the kids went into a final dance ending with them all leaning, arms extended, towards the very surprised yet laughing head teacher. The applause was huge, and the kids took a series of curtain calls, each staying in place in their lines until the curtain stayed closed and the tempo of the music changed.

"Evening Sarah, long time no see," Sarah spun around from the final sight of the Year Sevens on stage to the voice, Bruce's voice.

"Bruce," she started, "I... you made me jump,"

"Sorry," he said, "I just came back here to check that the sound was OK,"

"Yes, it's fine, excellent actually."

"Look, Sarah I'm sorry I haven't been..." A walkie-talkie radio in his pocket screeched a garbled message, "Yes, this is Mr Young, what's up," he held the radio to his ear, "Alright, don't panic, I'm just coming," he looked at Sarah, "Honey, look I... I've got to dash, Vivian Fisher had just been sick all over her costume, the show must go on! I'll be back I promise!" With that he was gone.

An intentionally scruffy year eight walked on stage his clothes in disarray, and spoke in a monotone of prepared speech.

"This year we 'ave learned about the war," said the boy extending an arm crane like to his right, where a child dressed in a khaki battledress and steel helmet walked out. As soon as the arm dropped the boy ran back into the wings. "We learned about bomb shelters," a child carrying a representation of an Anderson shelter was next and he walked across the stage, "And the ARP," another elegantly dressed girl was pushed out on to stage strumming a huge harp. The boy looked over his shoulder and sighed. "A-R-P!" he whispered in a voice that carried the length of the hall.

The audience laughed loudly. "Air Raid Precautions!" he growled smiling at the audience when he saw them looking at him. His timing was perfect.

"Sorry!" whispered the girl, "Only the script said..."

The boy waved her away and she and her harp were pulled back into the wings quickly. He shook his head and looked at his fingers, muttering just loud enough for the audience to hear.

"This year we learned about the war," the young lad in the battledress reappeared quickly jumping back again, "and The A-R-P,"

"What about Anderson shelters!" came a piqued voice.

"I can't..." he turned and favoured the audience with a large and cheesy false grin. "Then we learned about rationing," he said in his staccato monotone, and four girls in forties costumes came on stage behind him. The band began to play a version of 'In the mood' while the speech of the young lad faded, the lights dimmed and the girls started to sing around the large microphone, gently jiving in time to the rhythm.

"You got 200 grams of cooking fat and not enough tea,

80 grams of cheese and 55 of coffee..."

Their harmony was perfect, and the lights went up to show some boys and girls in blue uniforms dancing perfectly to the excellent music, one standing and miming to the clarinet solo and Sarah joined in with the clapping as the girls finished their song "In the food".

The young lad was back on with his stilted and mistimed announcements that had children coming on stage at all times, the boy in the battledress giving up and sitting on the floor raising a hand whenever 'the war' was mentioned.

The piece was finished with "Who do you think you are kidding Mister Teacher," and the children mercilessly picked on something in the teaching style of each of the history faculty.

"Mr Brown goes off on one if we ain't in on time,

when he shouts we don't listen so he might as well just mime, so..."

Her programme had been really simple. She'd had a list of simple tunes that a small band could have played from a selection of kids shows, Joseph, Oliver, that kind of thing. Nothing as sophisticated as this!

While the year eight's danced and strutted on stage, Bruce had made a second attempt to talk to her, but had barely made it into the embarrassed 'how are you's' and 'I'm fine's' before the walkie-talkie called him away again.