The movers pulled up to the curb, the van’s engine sputtering to a stop. Jack wiped his brow and shot his partner a look.
“Bloody hell, Dave,” he grumbled, slapping the delivery sheet onto the dashboard. “A wardrobe, sofa, two armchairs, and a dining tablefifth floor with no lift! For what they’re paying, they ought to hire a ruddy crane.”
Dave kept his eyes on the road ahead, unfazed. “Quit moaning. Last job of the day, then home. Sarahs making shepherds pie.”
“Lucky you,” Jack muttered, glaring at the rows of weathered brick terraces outside. “Who in their right mind takes the fifth floor? Ground levels good enough for normal people.”
Dave smirked. “Better view, though. And no upstairs neighbours stomping about.”
“Romantic,” Jack scoffed. He finally glanced at the paperwork. “Whos the client, then? Emily Whitmore. Paid upfront, balance on delivery. Standard.”
The van turned off the main road into a cramped estate, parked cars lining the narrow street. New builds stood awkwardly beside ageing council blocks. Dave pulled up outside a peeling stucco building.
“Here we are. That doorway,” he nodded at the scuffed entrance. “Pray the doors are wide enough, or this wardrobes going nowhere.”
They unloaded the trolley, and Jack dialled the client.
“Ms. Whitmore? Hello, this is Premier Movers. Weve arrived with your delivery. Yes, downstairs now. Right, well wait.”
Minutes later, the door opened. A woman in her forties stood therejeans, a loose jumper, her chestnut hair in a messy bun. Minimal makeup, but something about her carried an air of quiet elegance.
“Come in,” she said warmly. “Flats on the top floor.”
They began loading the sofa onto the trolley, the heaviest item but not the bulkiest.
“Waitlet me help,” the woman offered as they struggled through the narrow stairwell.
“Wouldnt dream of it, Ms. Whitmore,” Dave insisted.
“Please,” she insisted, steadying the sofas edge. “These turns are murder if you dont know them.”
Something in her voice prickled at Jacks memory. The way she elongated certain words, the smooth cadencefamiliar, but he couldnt place it.
The climb was brutal. By the fifth floor, Jack had cursed every architect whod ever designed a building without a lift, every tenant who chose the top flat, and every client who ordered furniture to one.
Finally, the sofa reached the door. Ms. Whitmore unlocked it and gestured inside.
“Straight through to the lounge, by the window.”
The flat was surprisingly spaciouswalls knocked through, pale and airy. A grand piano sat in the corner, the only hint of extravagance.
“You play?” Dave asked as they settled the sofa.
“A little,” she said vaguely. “Just for myself.”
They fetched the rest. Jack couldnt shake the feeling he knew her. A past client? Someone from the telly?
When they brought in the last piecethe dining tableJack finally asked, “Sorry if its forward, Ms. Whitmore, but have we met? You seem familiar.”
She froze for a heartbeat. “No, first time using your company. Must be someone else.”
She turned to fetch her purse. From the next room, the radio playedan old ballad, once a chart-topper. A womans voice, rich and haunting, sang of lost love.
And then it hit him.
Jack spun. “Emily Starlight! Youre Emily Starlight!”
Dave nearly dropped the wardrobe door. He gaped at her. “Blimey! The Emily Starlight? The one who vanished years ago?”
She paled but kept her composure. “Youre mistaken. Just Emily Whitmore. Moved here recently.”
“Come off it!” Jacks voice rose. “I had all your albums! Dont Walk Away, Last Rain, Starry Skiesmy missus played them to death! Then you just disappeared!”
Dave jumped in. “Papers said youd gone abroad. Or joined a convent. Some even said you were” He cut himself off.
Emily sighed, sinking onto the new sofa. “Well. Youve found me. But Id appreciate it if this stayed between us.”
“Youre really her?” Jack stared. “Why vanish? Why live in a” he glanced around the modest flat, “place like this?”
“Sit,” she said suddenly. “Have some tea. If youve recognised me, you may as well hear it.”
They exchanged glances. Drinking tea with clients wasnt company policy. But who refused a chat with a vanished legend?
“Any more jobs today?” Jack asked Dave.
“Last one,” Dave confirmed, eyes still on Emily. “And whos to stop us? Jobs done.”
She returned with a traythree cups, a plate of digestives.
“I suppose youre wondering why a pop star lives in a council block,” she said, stirring her tea. “Its not a glamorous tale.”
She took a sip.
“Five years ago, I developed vocal nodules. Doctors gave me a choicesurgery with no guarantees, or complete rest. No touring, no recording, barely even speaking.”
“You chose silence,” Dave guessed.
She nodded. “I couldnt risk it. Singing was my lifethe thought of losing it entirely was unbearable. So I cancelled everything. Contracts, tours, all of it.”
“But why disappear?” Jack pressed. “You couldve told fans you were taking a break.”
A wry smile. “At first, I meant to. Then I realisedthis was my chance to start over. The industry its not just fame and applause. Its pressure. Compromise. Constant scrutiny. I was tired of the masks, the politics, the endless chase for hits.”
She paused.
“When I started, it was about the music. Then I became a brand. Emily, this songs too complex. Emily, your image isnt testing well. Emily, lose another stone before the shoot.”
“But you had everything,” Dave said. “Money, fans.”
“And no happiness,” she replied. “These five years taught me somethingreal life is in the small things. Waking without an alarm. Popping to the shops without makeup. Just being myself, not a persona.”
Jack shook his head. “Dont you miss it? The stage?”
“Sometimes,” she admitted. “The energy of a live crowd. But I found other ways. Teach singing at a local school. Write songs for othersunder a pseudonym.”
She nodded at the piano. “Thats been with me through everything. When I left my penthouse for this place, it was the first thing I moved.”
Jack frowned. “Whereve you been all this time?”
“First, my grans cottage in Cornwall. Three years of solitudeno telly, no internet. Just books and the sea. When the world forgot me, I came back. Changed my name, my hair, my clothes. Became plain Emily Whitmore, music teacher.”
She sipped her tea.
“And for the first time in years, Im happy. Truly happy.”
Dave leaned forward. “What about money? You mustve earned loads.”
A quiet laugh. “And spent just as muchwardrobes, stylists, PR. I saved enough. Live simply now. No designer frocks, no VIP holidays. Dont miss them.”
Jack hesitated. “Family? Friends?”
“Real friends were rare in that world. When I left, they moved on to the next star. As for family” She gestured around the flat. “Never had time for it. Always touring, recording. My manager said relationships were career killers.”
Her fingers traced the sofas edge.
“Now, though maybe Ill find someone who likes me for me. Not the fame.”
Jack and Dave exchanged glances.
“Always envied celebrities,” Jack admitted. “Thought you lot had it made. Turns out its not so simple.”
“Every job has its trade-offs,” Emily said softly. “Even yours.”
Dave chuckled. “My backs wrecked, but at least I stay fit. And meet interesting people.”
They finished their tea. Jack checked his watch.
“We should go. Ms. Whitmorethank you. For the tea, and the honesty. Wont tell a soul. Though my wifell be guttedshe was a massive fan.”
Emily smiled. “Give her my regards. Tell her Emily Starlight remembers her support. Maybe one day Ill returnbut on my terms, singing what I love.”
They said their goodbyes. On the stairs, Dave shook his head.
“Bloody hell, Jack. We just cracked a national mystery. Proper telly drama stuff.”
Jack snorted. “Two movers find missing pop star. Only in real life, its simpler and sadder. She just wanted out.”
They reached the van. Twilight settled over the estate
