So, listen to this wild story. Two movers, Dave and Steve, were delivering furniture to some posh new flat in Manchester, right? And they were proper gutted when they realised the woman they were delivering to was none other than a famous pop star whod vanished years ago.
“Dave, mate, you see this order?” Steve groaned, tossing the invoice onto the dashboard. “A wardrobe, a sofa, two armchairs, and a dining tableand the flats on the fifth floor with no lift! For what theyre paying, they can carry it up themselves!”
“Come off it, Steve,” Dave said, keeping his eyes on the road. “Last job of the day, then home. The missus said shes doing a roast.”
“Your roast is safe, but my back wont thank me,” Steve sighed, staring out at the rows of red-brick terraces. “Why do people even want top-floor flats? Just live on the ground like normal people.”
“Better view,” Dave smirked. “And no upstairs neighbours stomping about.”
“Yeah, proper romantic,” Steve muttered. “So whos the client, then?” He squinted at the invoice. “Emily Harper. Phone, address deposit paid, balance on delivery. Standard.”
The van turned off the main road into a quiet estate, parked cars lining the street. The new-build flats stood awkwardly next to old terraced houses, like they didnt quite belong. Dave pulled up outside a slightly shabby five-story building, paint peeling off the front.
“Right, here we go,” he said, nodding to the scuffed front door. “Hope the doorframes are wide, or were in for a nightmare with that wardrobe.”
They unloaded the trolley, and Steve rang the client.
“Hello, Ms. Harper? Hi, its Steve from City Movers. Were downstairs with your delivery. Yeah, well wait.”
A few minutes later, the door opened, and a woman in her early forties appearedworn jeans, a loose jumper, her dark hair tied up in a messy bun. Minimal makeup, but she had this warm smile.
“Hi lads, come on up. Fifth floor, last one.”
They started loading the furniture onto the trolley, starting with the sofabulky but not too heavy.
“Wait, let me help,” the woman said suddenly as they struggled with the tight hallway turns.
“Nah, dont worry, Ms. Harper,” Dave waved her off. “Its our job.”
“Still,” she insisted, grabbing a corner, “these turns are a nightmare if you dont know them.”
Her voice niggled at Steve. He frowned, trying to place itsomething familiar about the way she stretched her vowels. Where had he heard it before?
Five flights later, Steve had cursed every architect who ever built a walk-up, every tenant who chose to live in one, and especially every client who ordered heavy furniture to one. Finally, they got the sofa to the door. The woman unlocked it and held it open.
“Just pop it by the window in the lounge.”
The flat was surprisingly spaciousmustve been knocked through. Light walls, sparse furniture, loads of natural light. And in the corner a piano. The only thing that hinted at her past life.
“You play?” Dave asked, nodding at it as they set the sofa down.
“A bit,” she said vaguely. “Just for myself, really.”
They went back for the rest, and Steve kept stealing glances at her. That face where had he seen it before?
When they brought up the last piecethe dining tableSteve finally cracked.
“Sorry for asking, Ms. Harper, but have we met before? You look dead familiar.”
She froze for half a second, then shook her head. “No, first time ordering from you. Must be mistaken.”
She turned to fetch the payment, and just then, an old pop song came on the radio in the next roomone that used to be *everywhere* years ago. A womans voice, smooth and full of emotion, singing about lost love.
And then it hit him.
Steve spun around, staring at her as she handed him the cash. “Emily Starling?! Bloody hell, youre Emily Starling!”
Dave, whod been adjusting the wardrobe, nearly dropped the door. He whipped around, gaping. “No way! *The* Emily Starling? The one who disappeared?”
The woman went pale but stayed calm. “Youve got the wrong person. Im Emily Harper. Just moved here.”
“Come off it!” Steve was buzzing. “I *know* your voice! Stay With Me, Last Summer Rain, Midnight Skymy wife used to belt those out in the shower! Then one daypoof! You vanished! Papers went mad!”
“Rumours said you moved abroad,” Dave chimed in. “Or joined a convent. Some even said you” He cut himself off, probably thinking better of mentioning the death rumours.
Emily sighed and sank onto the new sofa. “Alright, youve got me,” she said quietly. “But Id really appreciate it if this stayed between us.”
“So its really you?” Steve still couldnt believe it. “Whyd you disappear? And why live in a” He glanced around the modest flat. “Place like this?”
“Sit down,” she said suddenly. “Since youve recognised me, might as well have a cuppa. Ill explain. Bound to happen eventually.”
They exchanged awkward looks. Tea with clients wasnt company policy. But who says no to tea with a missing pop legend?
“Any more jobs today?” Steve asked Dave.
“Nah, last one,” Dave said, still staring at her. “Whos gonna stop us? Jobs done.”
Emily went to the kitchen, leaving them in disbelief.
“Saw her live once,” Dave whispered. “Ten years back. Wife got front-row tickets. Stunning, she waslong sequin dress, voice like an angel.”
“I had all her albums,” Steve admitted. “Even got an autograph at a signing once. Queued for hours. Thengone. No gigs, no new songs, no interviews. Like shed vanished into thin air.”
Emily came back with tea and biscuits, sitting across from them.
“Youre probably wondering why a pop stars living in a walk-up with budget furniture,” she said, like shed read their minds. “Simple story, really. Not a happy one, though.”
She took a sip, gathering her thoughts.
“Five years ago, I got diagnosed with vocal cord damage. Not life-threatening, but the doctors saideither risky surgery or complete rest. No gigs, no recording, barely even talking.”
“And you chose rest,” Dave guessed.
“Yeah,” she nodded. “Couldnt risk it. Singing was my whole life. The thought of losing my voice entirely So I took a break. Cancelled everything.”
“But why disappear completely?” Steve asked. “Couldve just told fans you were taking time off.”
She gave a dry laugh. “That was the plan. Then I realisedthis was my chance to start over. See, the music industry isnt just fame and applause. Its pressure, expectations, endless chasing hits. I was tired of it. Tired of fake smiles, backstabbers, compromising who I was.”
She paused, lost in thought.
“When I started, it was different. I sang because I loved music, loved connecting with people. Then it changed. I became a brand, a product. Emily, this songs too niche. Emily, this look doesnt test well. Emily, lose another stone before the shoot.”
“But you were massive!” Dave said. “Money, fans”
“Yeah,” she agreed. “But it didnt make me happy. You know what Ive learned these past five years? Real lifes in the simple stuff. Waking up when you want. Going to Tesco without makeup, no paparazzi. Just being *you*.”
Steve frowned. “Dont you miss the fans? The stage?”
“Sometimes,” she admitted. “Especially the energy of a live crowd. But I found other ways to stay in music. Teach kids vocals at a local studio, write songs for new singersjust anonymously now.”
“Thats why the piano,” Dave nodded. “Makes sense.”
“Its been with me forever,” she smiled. “First thing I moved in here. The rest could wait.”
“Whereve you been all this time?” Steve asked.
“First, I went to my nans in the countryside,” she said. “Three years thereno internet, no telly, just books and quiet. When I figured people had moved on, I came back. Changed my name, my look. Became plain Emily Harper, music teacher.”
She took another sip.
“And you know what? For the first time in years, Im *happy*. Not at firsttook adjusting. No fans, no spotlight. But then freedom. No more being a prisoner to fame.”
“What about money?” Dave asked.
She chuckled. “Made plenty, spent plentywardrobes, PR, holidays. Saved some,
