**Diary Entry An Unexpected Encounter**
Today was anything but ordinary. The job seemed simple enough: deliver furniture to a new flata wardrobe, sofa, two armchairs, and a table. But no lift, and on the fifth floor, no less. I groaned as I tossed the delivery note onto the dashboard. “For this pay, Serge should carry it himself!”
“Come off it, Nick,” Bill replied calmly, eyes on the road. “Last job of the day, then home. Lindas making beef stew.”
“Your beef stews safe, but my back wont thank me,” I muttered, staring at the grey council blocks outside. “Who even chooses the fifth floor? Ground floors the way to go.”
“Better view,” Bill smirked. “And no upstairs neighbours stomping about.”
I glanced back at the paperwork. “Orders for an Emily Hartwood. Paid the deposit, rest on delivery. Nothing unusual.”
We pulled into a cramped car park, new builds towering over older terraced houses. Bill parked near a peeling entryway. “This is it. Hope the doors are wide enough, or well be wrestling that wardrobe all afternoon.”
After unloading the trolley, I rang the client.
“Emily Hartwood? Hullo, Comfort Furniture here. Weve arrived with your order. Aye, downstairs now. Right, well wait.”
Minutes later, a woman in her forties appearedjeans, a loose jumper, dark hair in a messy bun. Barely any makeup. She smiled warmly. “Come up, flats on the fifth.”
We started with the sofabulky but manageable. As we manoeuvred the narrow stairwell, she surprised us. “Let me help.”
Bill waved her off. “No need, love. This is our job.”
“I insist,” she said, steadying a corner. “This landings a nightmare if you dont know the turns.”
Her voice tugged at my memory. That slight drawl, the way she held her vowels familiar, but I couldnt place it.
By the fifth floor, Id cursed every architect whod ever built a block without a lift. The flat, though, was a surpriseairy, minimal, with a piano in the corner.
“You play?” Bill asked as we set the sofa down.
“A little,” she said vaguely. “Just for myself.”
The whole time, her face nagged at me. Had we delivered to her before? Or had I seen her somewhere?
When we brought up the last piecethe coffee tableI finally asked. “Sorry if this is odd, but have we met? You seem familiar.”
She stilled for a second. “No, first order with you. Must be a coincidence.”
Then the radio in the next room played an old hitone that used to dominate the charts. A womans voice sang about lost love.
And it hit me.
“Emily Starling!” I blurted as she handed me the cash. “Youre Emily Starling!”
Bill nearly dropped the wardrobe door. “Blimey! The Emily Starling? The one who vanished years ago?”
She paled but kept cool. “Youre mistaken. Im Emily Hartwood. Just moved here.”
“Dont give me that,” I laughed. “I know every one of your songsDont Walk Away, Last Rain, Starry Skies My wife played them nonstop! Then you just disappeared.”
Bill jumped in. “Papers said youd gone abroad. Or joined a convent. Some even reckoned youd” He cut himself off, probably remembering the death rumours.
She sighed and sank onto the new sofa. “Fine. Youve found me. But please, keep this between us.”
“Youre really her?” I couldnt believe it. “Why vanish? And why live in a” I glanced around the modest flat, “place like this?”
“Sit,” she offered. “Tea? Since youve sussed me out, may as well explain.”
We hesitatedchatting with clients wasnt company policy. But who turns down tea with a missing pop legend?
Bill checked his watch. “No more jobs today. And whos to stop us?”
She returned with a trayproper English tea, biscuits.
“Youre wondering why a pop star lives in a council flat and shops at IKEA,” she said, reading our minds. “Its simple, really. Five years ago, I developed nodules on my vocal cords. Doctors said: operate and risk losing my voice, or rest completely. No gigs, no studio, barely even talking.”
“So you chose rest,” Bill guessed.
She nodded. “Singing was my life. The thought of losing it I couldnt risk it. Cancelled everything.”
“But why disappear?” I asked. “Couldve told fans you were taking a break.”
A dry laugh. “At first, I planned to. Then I realisedthis was my chance for a real life. The industry its not just fame and applause. Its pressure, fake smiles, compromising who you are. I was tired of being a brand, a product. Emily, this songs too complex for your audience. Emily, lose five pounds before the shoot.”
“But you had it all,” Bill said. “Money, fans.”
“And no happiness,” she replied. “These five years taught me real lifewaking without an alarm, popping to Tesco without makeup, just being me. Not an image.”
I shook my head. “Dont you miss performing?”
“Sometimes. The energy of a live crowd But I still teach voice lessons, write songs under a pen name. Just quietly.”
She gestured to the piano. “Thats the one thing I kept. Sold the penthouse, bought this place. First thing I moved in.”
Bill frowned. “What about family? Friends?”
“Real friends were rare in the business,” she admitted. “When I left, they moved on to the next star. As for family Never had time for it. Always touring, recording. What man puts up with that? My producer always said marriage kills careers.”
She looked around the flat. “Now, Ive got a chance. To meet someone who wants menot the fame. To build a real life.”
Bill and I exchanged glances. Put things in perspective.
“Always envied celebs,” I admitted. “Thought you lot had it made. Turns out its not all glitter.”
“Every job has its downsides,” she said. “Even yours.”
Bill grinned. “Backs wrecked, but at least its free gym sessions. And we meet interesting people.”
We finished our tea. Time to go.
“Thanks for this, Emily Hartwood,” I said, stumbling over the name. “We wont breathe a word. Though my wifell be guttedshe was a huge fan.”
“Tell her I said hello,” she smiled. “And that Emily Starling appreciates her. Maybe Ill return one daybut on my terms, with music I love.”
As we left, Bill chuckled. “Nick, we just stumbled into a proper mystery. Like one of those telly dramas.”
“Yeah, Two Movers Solve Pop Stars Disappearance,” I snorted. “Turns out, she just wanted out.”
Outside, dusk settled. A warm light glowed in her fifth-floor window.
“You know,” I said, starting the van, “I reckon weve got it better. Youll go home to Lindas stew, kids hugging you. Shes up there alone with that piano.”
Bill shrugged. “But shes doing what she loves. Even if its just for her.”
I grinned. “Who says I dont love hauling sofas? Saw how she looked at that onelike she was dreaming up something.”
“Maybe a new song,” Bill mused.
We drove off, two blokes whod brushed against fame and learned its secret: sometimes, the brightest stars just want to be ordinary.
And up on the fifth floor, Emily Hartwoodonce Emily Starlingsat at her piano, fingers tracing the start of a new melody. A song about losing everything to find yourself.
