Pretty Famous: an Astonvale novel

By Carla Caruso

A dark secret from Hollywood's Golden Age. A possible prince-in-hiding. Astonvale's about to implode ...

Professional organiser Celeste Pretty swore she'd never work with uber-blonde interior designer Imogen Karmel again, but then she's presented with a project she can't refuse. the prestigious Astonvale College is celebrating its centenary and needs the pair to ensure the festivities go off without a hitch.

As Celeste sets to work in a flurry of activity - in between organising her own engagement party - she finds herself blowing away the cobwebs on a sixty-year-old secret.

Meanwhile, Imogen becomes enamoured with a substitute teacher, Hudson Addison, who may or may not be a royal in hiding. And there's nothing Imogen dreams of more than becoming a princess.

Will all be revealed on party night?

• Language: English
• Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers Australia
• Release date: Feb 1, 2015
• ISBN: 9781460704127

Carla Caruso

Carla Caruso was born in Adelaide, Australia, and only 'escaped' for three years to work as a magazine journalist and stylist in Sydney. Previously, she was a gossip columnist and fashion editor at Adelaide's daily newspaper, The Advertiser. She has since freelanced for titles including Woman's Day, Cleo and Shop Til You Drop. These days, she writes fiction in between playing mum to twin sons Alessio and Sebastian, making fashion jewellery, and restoring vintage furniture. Oh, plus checking her daily horoscopes, jogging, and devouring trashy TV shows!   Find out more on Carla's website, or follow her on Instagram and Facebook. 

Book preview

Chapter One

Celeste Pretty hopped from one foot to the other as she slotted her key in the front door, desperate to relieve herself. She’d been with one of her professional organising clients all day: a female bodybuilder who liked to ‘flip’ her wardrobe each season, even if its contents consisted largely of scraps of fluoro Spandex no matter the weather. All the protein shakes and green juices Celeste had downed on the job had taken their toll. A workplace hazard.

Swinging open the door, she sneezed violently as the overpowering scent of roses wrestled with the usual smell of her lavender-scented reed diffusers. With a hand to her dripping nose, Celeste looked down at the timber floorboards and her heart jolted. Red and cream petals were scattered along the hallway. Her gaze flicked to a sign to her right, inscribed with Lenny’s sprawling handwriting. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll clean up later.’

Well, she hadn’t been expecting this. She wasn’t sure whether to be more impressed with his romantic gesture of scattering rose petals or the fact that he knew her well enough to offer to tidy up afterwards. Her bladder could wait. She quickened her pace down the hall, her heart thumping and her mind running a mile a minute.

Had Lenny had a particularly good day on the building site and wanted to celebrate? Was he just feeling randy? Or … or was it something else? Things had gotten better and better for them since their summer holiday in Robe and now autumn was settling in, sprinkling gold leaves and romantic ideas like cosy fires about the place. In summer she’d told Lenny she hoped to marry him one day but that was as far as they’d gotten on the subject. Nothing more had been said since. They hadn’t even tried properly living together.

A big, red arrow pasted to the far wall was pointing her towards the back deck, where — oh! — Etta James could be heard playing. Celeste’s stomach contracted. Something was definitely, positively up. Lenny was more of a rock kind of guy, if anything.

She paused at the white-framed hall mirror, not wanting to have green juice staining her chin if this was to be her Big Moment. After swiping a tissue from a box and blowing her nose, she checked her reflection. She swept a hand through her honey-brown bob and wiped errant eye-shadow from beneath her grey-blue eyes with a finger. Okay, good to go, no more nervous dawdling. Actually … She paused to dump her tote and keys atop the cabinet. Right.

She wiped her hands down the skirt of her shirtdress and continued forwards. It didn’t take long to reach her semi-detached abode’s back door. Her place was like a gatekeeper’s house compared to Lenny’s vast, architecturally-designed home. She sucked in a breath as she paused to peek through the screen. There he stood nervously twitching his shirt collar on her tiny deck, which heaved with bunches of red roses and flickering candles. Who even knew he had it in him? He’d seemed an untameable bachelor when they’d first met.

Not wanting to leave him suffering a moment longer, she flung open the screen door and stepped outside. The enormity of the situation suddenly overwhelmed her once more, making her stop short. His midnight-black eyes bore into hers, the early evening breeze toying with his dark, wavy hair. Good grief. She’d never seen him look so nervous. His eyes were the biggest giveaway.

‘I really need to step up my security,’ she teased.

‘Come here,’ Lenny responded in a strangled sort of voice, stretching out a hand. ‘You can’t make me do this alone. I’ve already heard this darn CD play through once.’

Perspiration beaded near his hairline. And she’d figured him to be cool-as-a-cucumber in any situation. It was unbelievably sweet. Her breath held, she stepped forwards on the flower-bedecked porch, crushed rose petals releasing their perfume underfoot — though, in a less sneeze-worthy manner — and he reached to clutch her hands in his warm ones.

‘Celeste Pretty, I know you’ve already mentioned marriage before, but I’m a traditionalist. I wanted to make it official in a way that lived up to what you dreamed about in high school, while all the boys were busy lusting after you.’

Celeste gripped his hands a little tighter. Clearly he wasn’t aware of the braces and bad cowlick of her younger years. Or her state school nickname of Not-So-Pretty. She silently urged him on, to make the words that were now yelling in her head a reality.

‘I know everything about you,’ Lenny pushed on. Except, of course, that she was once the school dork. ‘I even had the jeweller lend me a tray of rings for you to choose from, because I knew you wouldn’t want one that’d catch on your clothes or be too fussy.’

Only Lenny could get a jewellery designer to agree to something like that. Lenny squeezed her fingers and let out a throaty laugh. ‘I was going to put a ring on Custard’s collar but I couldn’t trust him not to run off with it and only resurface again tomorrow. Having said that, he’s currently curled up on your office chair asleep.’

‘Of course he is.’ Her beloved Siamese cat definitely considered himself the top feline in the household, above Celeste. She shook her head, her voice surprising her by breaking a little. ‘And you organised all this alone? And I didn’t even suspect a thing!’

Lenny’s expression was slightly sheepish. ‘Well, I might have had some help from my sister …’ He suddenly stepped back and then, oh gosh, he manoeuvred himself down on one knee, his hands still gripping hers. She could hear her heart pounding away in her ears like a baby’s on an ultrasound. Lub dub, lub dub. ‘Celeste, will you—’

‘What the fuck?!’

This time it felt like Celeste’s heart had stopped beating entirely. Turning, she discovered her old nemesis Imogen Karmel in the doorway, her hazel eyes wide and her glossy mouth hanging open.

Fudge. Celeste had been so caught up in the moment she’d forgotten her meeting with Imogen about the joint project they were working on, and to lock the bloody front door. Trust the uber-blonde to gate-crash Celeste’s fairy-tale proposal.

Lenny cleared his throat, his voice slightly weary. ‘Can you give us a minute, Imogen?’

Okay, so maybe ‘what the fuck?!’ hadn’t been the best choice of words. Imogen could concede that as she stomped over to her TV later on, shoving To Catch a Thief in the DVD player.

She often felt bad when she said things out loud without thinking. But then the voice of her bossy older sister, Talisa, would start up in her head about not needing to tiptoe around anyone, especially when people could easily turn against you in the blink of an eye. Like how things could have played out in the year nineteen-ninety-nine, which Imogen never liked to talk about. Nope, it was better to cut down others first, define the pecking order.

Seriously, though, Imogen had felt like she was back on The Bachelor walking in on that intimate little set-up between Lenny and Celeste. Being a bystander to it was as depressing as hearing a neighbour’s house party underway when she was home alone. Imogen had been the most popular girl in her grade and yet Celeste, who probably had twenty beige cardigans in her wardrobe, had nabbed a major hunk while Imogen was still single!

Imogen had made it to the top three on the reality dating show, by the by, and hadn’t even been that interested in the so-called catch. Some podiatrist with a chiselled jaw. It was just that the TV exposure was good for business. Unless a guy happened to be a royal into toe-sucking, she wasn’t interested in anyone who got that close to people’s feet. If only she’d heard sooner about I Wanna Marry Harry, in which contestants competed for a Prince Harry lookalike. It would have been much more her style.

Thrusting her fancy-dress tiara onto her head, she climbed up onto her lilac canopy bed — purple being the colour of royalty — and laid back against the multitude of pillows. She reached for her Creed Fleurissimo body lotion, which Talisa had bought her during another exotic holiday with her dentist husband. Looking at teeth, of course, was much more acceptable than feet. Creed Fleurissimo was also the scent her idol, Grace Kelly, had worn on the day of her wedding to Rainier III, Prince of Monaco.

After slathering the moisturiser on her hands and rubbing it in, Imogen grabbed the remote. She fast-forwarded to her favourite bit when an over-tanned Cary Grant kisses Grace against a backdrop of exploding fireworks on the French Riviera.

Imogen had told Celeste they could sort things out at work tomorrow. No way had she wanted to wait around while the pair made lovey-dovey eyes at one another. Lenny had had more flowers on display than could be seen at Monaco’s Princess Grace Rose Garden. Imogen knew what it must have felt like to be Kate Middleton’s sister right then, before Pippa became famous on her own for her hot tuckus.

Anyway, Imogen wanted to tie the knot in the south of France like Brad and Angelina, not boring old Adelaide. She coveted a top-notch sapphire, not a mere diamond. In fact, she wanted exactly what money couldn’t buy: a prince. Just like the Spanish one her model mum had confided she’d had a whirlwind dalliance with, before settling down with Imogen’s father. Sure, Daddy had made squillions as an investment banker and Imogen wouldn’t be alive if her parents hadn’t gotten together, but royalty was royalty was royalty.

Imogen was tired of commoners. Okay, so she’d once had a teeny tiny crush on Lenny herself, but that was eons ago. An old school friend of Imogen’s, also in interior design, had become a bloody countess when she’d met an earl while doing the interiors for a super-luxe private island resort in the Caribbean. Imogen was still bristling about that. Although, it also meant her dream was not beyond the realm of possibility.

Imogen had tried her own luck at rubbing shoulders with aristocracy when she’d gone on a buying trip to France for her Robe resort homewares store. Her own Tour de France of sorts. All right, a little inspired by how Grace Kelly met Prince Rainier during the Cannes Film Festival. Imogen had thought she’d been on a winner when she became acquainted with a guy at a bar whose friends kept calling him ‘Duke’. After all, hadn’t Mary Donaldson landed a royal by gate-crashing a pub party during the Sydney Olympics?

But, following a session as hot as Monaco’s semitropical temperatures at her suite, Imogen had happened upon the guy’s passport and discovered a) he was American, despite the British accent he’d put on, and b) Duke was merely his first name.

Even so, she could fantasise, couldn’t she? Pretend just for a moment he really had been royalty. Who could it hurt? He’d still had washboard abs, a sexy dimple in his left cheek, and treacle-dark locks that he had to keep pushing out of his sea-green eyes. She let her hand slip down inside her briefs, Elle Macpherson Intimates nonetheless, and slid a finger up and down where it tingled just at the memory of the hook-up.

A close-up of Cary Grant and Grace Kelly in another passionate clinch filled the screen. Beyond the giant TV, through her open second-storey window, Imogen could see the lit-up oval of Astonvale College shining like an emerald. It was funny she’d be back working at the prestigious school tomorrow when sometimes, when it came to social politics, she felt like she’d never left. Not that she minded. She’d been the queen of that place. Well, except for that one minuscule year she hadn’t been there, which Talisa was always eager to remind her of.

Bubbles of ecstasy suddenly shot up inside Imogen like a soda-making machine and right then it didn’t matter about big sisters or non-dukes or fairy-tale proposals, just what she was experiencing as she writhed about amid the sheets. Just as quickly, the feeling passed and she reached for a tissue to clean herself up. Climbing off the bed with a yawn, she pulled the blinds shut and switched off the TV, swiping her satin sleep mask from her dresser on the way back to bed. After switching off her lamp and curling up on her side, she pulled the mask over her eyes, safe in the knowledge she’d be in the Land of Nod before long. Pleasuring herself always made sure of that.

‘And here’s a shot of Lenny as a boy in the bath!’ Lenny’s mum gushed, next to Celeste on the Muscats’ plush, grey couch, shoving a retro photo album under Celeste’s nose.

‘Oh … he’s eating toast in the tub,’ Celeste murmured, not knowing what else to say. At least the Vegemite-laden bread was covering a young Lenny’s whatsit from prying eyes. ‘Very, uh, cute.’

‘Wasn’t he?’ Mrs Muscat beamed proudly.

Instead of a romantic night in, Celeste had ventured with Lenny to his parents’ humungous place, right after his surprise proposal. Apparently Lenny’s family had been dying to celebrate the good news with the pair ever since Lenny had mentioned the idea of popping the question. Naturally, they’d assumed she’d say yes with Lenny being such a good catch and all, and, of course, she had. Even Lenny’s elder sister, Perla, had driven down to help celebrate, though she’d currently disappeared. Lenny and his dad, meanwhile, were chatting on the balcony. The pair both worked in the property realm and Mr Muscat’s distinguished attractiveness, from his faintly silver-streaked hair to his deep olive skin, proved Lenny would also age like a fine wine.

Mrs Muscat’s dark eyes, which reminded Celeste of Lenny’s own, lingered on the bath shot. ‘Ah, feeding him toast was the only way to get him ready in time in the morning, if things had been too busy for a bath the night before.’

‘Ma, what are you showing Celeste now?’ Lenny had obviously returned from the balcony with his father.

‘Just some pictures from your childhood.’ Mrs Muscat said indignantly, her round cheeks shining as bright as her crop of burgundy-dyed hair. ‘You were such an adorable baby.’

‘And an adorable teenager!’ Perla was back, too, and she was wielding yet another tome. ‘I found one of his old high school yearbooks.’

The lawyer and mum-of-two thrust the yearbook on top of the photo album in Celeste’s lap, her slick, jet-black ponytail swinging. Celeste glanced down at the page it was open to and felt her mouth resemble a fly-trap as she stared at the central picture.

The teenage version of Lenny? Okay, under-age but seeing as she was marrying him she figured it was passable — he was hot, hot, hot. He was standing there in basketball gear with a ball under one arm, his skin all bronzed and his dark hair messy in a way that looked salon-perfect, though wasn’t. Under the picture were the taglines ‘Most Likely to Be Famous’ and ‘Best Smile’.

There was no way a young Lenny Muscat would have looked twice at Celeste as a girl.

Perla, now perched on the couch’s arm, tapped Celeste on the shoulder. ‘You’ll have to bring some of your old school yearbooks over, too. Show us what you were like as a teen! We want to know all about you now you’re’ — she paused to nudge Celeste in the side — ‘almost family.’

Celeste swallowed hard. She couldn’t think of anything worse than Lenny seeing her in full cowlick-haired, metal-mouth mode. An image flitted through her mind of him wrenching off her engagement ring — she’d settled on a halo-style one with micro-pavé diamonds surrounding the massive centre stone, by the by — and telling her to leave the family pad immediately. Nope, there was no way she was taking Lenny on a trip down memory lane. Not Mr Popularity. Not ever. Unfortunately, Perla was still gazing at her expectantly.

‘Um, I’d like to, but you know, me being a neat-freak and all, I’m pretty sure I’ve binned them all unfortunately.’

Lenny settled on Celeste’s other side on the couch, weighing in, ‘I know who would have kept a few copies. Your dad.’

Celeste gulped again. Oh dear. The Muscats were like a dog with a bone. ‘Er, maybe.’

Thankfully the conversation was interrupted by Mrs Muscat reaching for a tray laden with diamond-shaped pastries on the coffee table. ‘Celeste, you haven’t tried one of my ricotta and blueberry pastizzi yet. They’re a Maltese tradition. You need to keep up your strength if you want to have healthy trabi one day soon.’

‘Trabi?’ Celeste asked faintly as she helped herself to a crispy pastry.

‘Babies, of course,’ Mrs Muscat said triumphantly.

And Celeste and Lenny hadn’t even gotten down the aisle yet … She took a big bite of the pastizz, which was as wonderfully flaky and sweet as it looked, though she barely tasted it.

‘Don’t mind my mother,’ Perla cut in. ‘Like she needs more grandchildren right now. She spoils my two kids enough! Speaking of food, though, have you had any thoughts about where you might want to wine and dine your engagement party guests?’

Mr Muscat, who’d been standing silently by the fireplace until now, waved a hand in the air. Behind him was a painting of a sandy fishing village with red, yellow and blue-painted boats. ‘Ah, women and parties. Any excuse to get a new dress!’ Then he disappeared in the direction of the kitchen. He was a man of few words and didn’t mince them once he spoke.

Celeste glanced at Lenny, who looked as noncommittal as she felt, and shrugged. ‘To be honest, I hadn’t even thought about an actual party. Lenny really took me by surprise tonight. But I guess something like a garden cocktail party could be nice …’

Mrs Muscat put a hand to her throat, as though her pastizz had gone down the wrong way. ‘Cocktails? Standing on the grass? No, no, the Maltese community wouldn’t be used to something as casual as that.’

‘Oh.’

Despite the Muscats’ elaborately decorated home, Lenny had always insisted his family, who’d come from meagre beginnings, weren’t flashy. And yet Mrs Muscat’s reaction seemed to say the exact opposite. For Celeste, however, the idea of being the star of some overblown soiree didn’t hold any appeal. She’d rather hide in the corner.

Perla put a slender hand atop Celeste’s own. ‘Don’t worry. We can help with the party research. Look into some venues for you. There’s no need to panic just yet.’

‘Um, sure.’

Lenny got to his feet. ‘Anyway, I’d better take Celeste home. She’s starting work on a new project tomorrow, on top of me throwing a surprise proposal at her.’

Celeste wrapped up the rest of her pastizz with a nearby paper serviette, discreetly dropping it in her tote so Mrs Muscat wouldn’t notice, and gratefully stood up, too. Lenny’s family had warmly accepted Celeste into the fold since the year’s start, which had been lovely … but sometimes all their noise and forthright European-ness gave her a mild headache. Then again, she was just used to it being her and Dad.

Like a brick to the face, a sudden thought hit Celeste hard. Her mum. She wouldn’t be there to see Celeste, all dressed up in ivory, about to set off for the church to marry the man of her dreams. She wouldn’t be there to tell her she looked like a princess, right before a veiled Celeste walked down the aisle.

Celeste felt Lenny’s warm fingers wrap around hers and her distress lessened. One thing she shouldn’t be whinging about was having family surrounding her during her impending nuptials, adopted or not. And she should be celebrating the fact that the devastatingly handsome man beside her wanted to get married. Really, she was blessed.

Chapter Two

Imogen felt a hand pulling her sleep mask from her eyes and screamed. The face of her personal trainer and sometimes makeup artist, Marcel Timms, loomed into view in the shadows.

‘Good morning, princess,’ he said cheerily, zipping off to open the blinds so the morning sunshine spilled in. Imogen’s sausage dog, Bisous, sleepily poked his head up from his blue-spotted dog bed in the corner. He must have crawled in later in the night. Marcel, whose eyebrows and stubble looked too manicured for that time of the morning, shot Imogen another glance. ‘And nice tiara. You remind me of The Princess and the Pea.’

Darn giving bloody Marcel a key of his own, so he could drag her out of bed for a workout those mornings she refused to answer the door.

She dragged the fake crown from her bedraggled hair. ‘I forgot I still had it on. Though it’d probably suit you better, with you identifying as a queen and all.’

Sarcasm dripped from Marcel’s voice. ‘Ha-di-ha-ha.’

Foolishly, she’d tried hitting on him when they’d first met at the gym, blinded by his muscles and fashion sense, and okay, it had been a particularly randy time of month for her. He’d let her down gently by saying, ‘Sweetheart, I think we bat for opposing teams.’ She’d kept him in her life because of his makeup wizardry and fitness skills, which ensured her calves always looked super-honed. Oh, and his penchant for gossip meant he was fun to hang around.

He snatched up a pile of media from the dresser and handed it to her. ‘I grabbed your copy of Royalty Monthly on the way in. Not like you to leave it languishing in your letterbox.’ Clearly he didn’t know about a certain Miss Pretty bringing out the green-eyed monster in her last night, rendering normal tasks too difficult to carry out. ‘And The Australian was on your front lawn.’

Imogen tossed aside the broadsheet newspaper. She only got it delivered for looks, she didn’t actually read the thing … did anybody? … and distractedly ripped open the plastic encasing Royalty Monthly. ‘Ta. Fancy making us cuppas while you’re up? I couldn’t possibly do anything without a caffeine fix first. You can help yourself to the Tim Tams while you’re downstairs if you like.’

‘You know I don’t eat chocolate biscuits. Empty calories,’ Marcel retorted, though he was already making his way to the hall. If only gay marriage were legal in Australia, he’d make a fabulous husband for some bloke. Marcel paused in the doorway. ‘By the way, have you tried that moisturiser sample I left you yet? It works wonders for skin dehydrated by excessive caffeine, which we know is