**Diary Entry 19th March**
“Bloody hell, Dave, did you see the order? A wardrobe, a sofa, two armchairs, and a dining table! Fifth floor, no lift! For this pay, Steve can carry it himself!” I tossed the delivery note onto the dashboard, fuming.
“Come off it, Nick,” Dave replied calmly, eyes on the road. “Last job today, then home. The missus promised shepherds pie.”
“Your pies safe, but my back wont thank me,” I sighed, staring at the rows of identical council flats. “Who chooses the fifth floor? Ground floors what normal people do.”
“Better view,” Dave chuckled. “No upstairs neighbours stomping about.”
“Romantic,” I muttered. “Whos the client, anyway?” I squinted at the note. “Marina Osbourne. Phone, address Deposit paid, balance on delivery. Standard.”
The van turned into a cramped car park, new builds wedged between old brick houses. Dave parked beside a peeling stairwell.
“Here we are. Hope the doorframes are wide, or that wardrobes going nowhere.”
We unloaded the trolley, and I rang the client.
“Hello, Marina Osbourne? Comfort Furniture here. Weve arrived. Downstairs now. Right, see you.”
Minutes later, a woman in her forties appearedjeans, a loose jumper, hair in a messy bun. Barely any makeup. She smiled warmly.
“Hello, come up. Flats on the top floor.”
We started loading the sofa onto the trolley.
“Wait, Ill help,” she offered as we wrestled it through the narrow hall.
“Dont trouble yourself,” Dave said.
“Really, I insist. These turns are tricky.”
Her voice tickled my memoryfamiliar, but I couldnt place it.
By the fifth floor, Id cursed every architect whod ever skipped lifts. The flat door opened to a bright, airy spacewhite walls, sparse furniture, a piano in the corner.
“You play?” Dave asked.
“A little. Just for myself.”
Back for the rest, I kept stealing glances. Had we delivered to her before?
When we placed the last piecethe dining tableI finally asked, “Sorry, but have we met? You seem familiar.”
She paused. “No, first order with you. Must be mistaken.”
Then the radio in the next room played an old pop balladone that used to rule the charts. A womans voice sang about lost love.
It hit me.
“Marina Starling! Youre Marina Starling!”
Dave nearly dropped the wardrobe door. “Blimey! The Marina Starling? The one who vanished years ago?”
She paled but stayed composed. “Youre mistaken. Just Marina Osbourne, new to the area.”
“Come off it!” I said. “I know every one of your songs! ‘Dont Walk Away,’ ‘Last Rain,’ ‘Starlit Sky’my wife adored them! Then you disappeared. Papers said youd fled abroador joined a convent!”
She sighed and sat on the new sofa. “Fine. But please, keep this between us.”
Over tea, she explained: vocal cord damage five years back. Doctors gave her a choicerisky surgery or total rest. No singing, no concerts, barely any talking.
“I chose rest. The industry it wasnt about music anymore. Just image, sales, constant compromises. I was exhausted.”
Shed left London for her grans cottage in Devon. Three years of solitudeno internet, no TV, just books and countryside. When the world forgot her, she returned, changed her name, and started teaching music anonymously.
“Funny thingIve never been happier. No cameras, no schedules. Just living.”
Dave frowned. “But the money? The fame?”
“Spent most on the lifestyle. Whats left covers basics. No designer dresses or Maldives trips anymore. Dont miss them.”
“And family?” I asked.
“Never had time. Touring, recording My producer said marriage killed careers.” She glanced around. “Now? Maybe Ill meet someone who likes menot the star.”
We left in silence, struck by how wrong wed been about fame.
“Imagine,” Dave mused. “We just solved the mystery of Marina Starling. Proper telly drama stuff.”
“Except real lifes simpler,” I said. “She just wanted out.”
As we drove off, I realised something. Maybe we were the lucky onescoming home to family, warmth. But then again, she had her piano, her music.
Back on the fifth floor, a light glowed in Marinas window. For the first time in years, she was playing a new song. About losing everything to find yourself.
Funny, isnt it? We chase fame like its the prize. But sometimes, the real wins just peace.
