Could It Be I'm Falling in Love? (10 page)

‘BOLLOCKS!’

The offy was shut.

What was it with today? Was the whole world conspiring against her? Was a bit of Pinot oblivion really too much to ask? In desperation, she turned to the pub. Maybe they did
take-outs. She shoved the Dog and Duck door and stomped up to the bar.

‘Hey, Rox – over here!’

Roxy froze. She quickly tried to remember what she was wearing and when she’d last glossed. Because, if she wasn’t mistaken, that voice had belonged to …

‘It’s me! Woody!’

She turned, and there he was, sitting at the bar in jeans, an old Ramones T-shirt and a twinkly-eyed grin. He rubbed his head and his T-shirt stretched gorgeously across his chest.

To her horror, Roxy felt herself blush. She could’ve kicked herself. Jennifer or no Jennifer, she
knew
Woody lived in the village … She should never have set foot out her front door without the checklist and a killer outfit. But she’d just slobbed into their local in trackies! Everyone knew trackies sagged at the back and made your arse look humungous. Woody might look gorgeous in the dressed-down, crumpled-up look, but she looked like a bag lady! She groped in her pocket for a pair of sunglasses to hide behind. But her pockets were empty.

‘Hi.’ She tried to look casual.

‘Hi!’ a female voice replied. Roxy froze again. She hadn’t seen Holly, scrubbed and perfect, perched on the bar stool next to Woody. Roxy’s mood plummeted further. Why was Woody with Holly? Where were the rest of the gang? Sue said he tried to get them to go out together. If there were any one-to-one pub trips going on, why wasn’t Woody doing them with her? Everyone knew drinking was her all-time favourite hobby.

‘Would you like to join us?’ Holly put down her orange juice and smiled.

‘Yeah, come on, Rox.’ Woody drummed the bar top. ‘What are you drinking? I insist.’

Roxy allowed him to usher her on to a stool. The poncho got wedged under her bum, yanking the neckline tight over her throat.

‘Cosmopolitan, please,’ she grunted hoarsely, surreptitiously freeing herself from knitted strangulation. If she couldn’t look sophisticated, she might as well drink sophisticated.

Woody laughed. ‘I’m not sure that’s in Dave’s repertoire.’

‘I could do you a gin and tonic with an umbrella in it?’ the landlord offered gruffly.

Roxy nodded. Woody was tantalisingly close. She was within dribbling distance of his honey-dipped biceps. His eyes sparkled in the light of the pub, golden flecks of stubble glinted on his jaw and his lips were deliciously moist from his pint. She could even smell him – and
Christ, he smelt good!
His aroma of clean clothes and pure, solid man was total heavenly torture. She suddenly pictured them lying together, limbs entangled after a long, hard session; her steeped head-to-sparkly-toenails in his special Woody sex smell. She almost groaned out loud. He was so gorgeous, so close –
and so bloody taken
. She took a large gulp of G and T.

‘You know,’ Holly mused, ‘I always thought our local would be more upmarket.’

‘What, fiddly cocktails and a door policy?’ Woody laughed. ‘No call for that kind of thing around here.’

‘But what about all the local celebs?’ Holly reasoned. ‘Surely they want something more than John Smith’s?’

‘Lavender Heath’s not like that,’ he replied. ‘Most people are just like us. They move here to get away from London life. They just want a bit of normality: walking the dog in their wellies, that kind of thing. They don’t want Cristal and blinis from their local. More like home-made pie and real ale. Eh, Rox?’

‘Mega …’ Roxy muttered glumly, rousing herself from her secret inspection of Woody’s thighs. She’d barely stepped into the Dog and Duck before. There didn’t seem any point when London was just an hour’s cab ride away.

‘That makes sense.’ Holly thought for a moment, before shuddering. ‘London … What a horrible place!’

Despite her gloom, Roxy peered at Holly. OK, so she was never going to make the
Vogue
cover, but Roxy could see that, despite the confines of her all-pastel wardrobe, she’d obviously made an effort tonight. She was wearing a pretty cream blouse, a pale pink cardigan and dainty, ladylike shoes. As she asked Woody about the local celebrities, and which ones the group should try to help, Roxy couldn’t help but wonder what she’d look like with her hair bleached and teamed with smoky eyes. Holly wasn’t the kind of girl Roxy had much in common with; she’d never been one of life’s do-gooders, preferred magazines to books and only wore pastels ironically. But that didn’t mean she couldn’t do something
for
her. If Holly could just knock out another best-seller, Roxy was sure she could make her a star. For a start, she’d be great for all those ‘before’ and ‘after’
magazine makeovers. And didn’t private members’ bars like the Groucho love getting literary bigwigs on their list?

‘I mean, it’s great that Roxy’s joined us,’ she heard Holly add quickly, checking nervously that she hadn’t caused offence, ‘but I’m sure we can do more …
help
more.’ She studied the bar before suddenly turning to Woody in excitement. ‘Hey, what about Dwayne Blowers? You know … the footballer? I heard he lives near here, and he’s had such troubles recently. You must know him, Woody. Get
him
to come to a meeting!’

‘Dwayne Blowers …?’ Woody tipped his head back in thought, and Roxy lost herself imagining how good it would feel to nuzzle into his neck. He dropped his head back down and looked directly at her. Roxy blushed again and minutely inspected her cocktail umbrella. ‘No – he’s not on my round.’

‘But what about Jennifer?’ Holly persisted. ‘Maybe she knows him?’

Roxy started at the mention of her rival.

‘Jennifer?’ Woody looked surprised.

‘Yes, what does she do again? Maybe she’s come across him?’

‘She hasn’t. Look, if I bump into him and get chatting, I’ll ask him. But if not, let’s just give the man some space.’

Holly submissively agreed.

‘Austin!’ Roxy suddenly blurted. Woody and Holly looked in surprise. It was practically the first word she’d uttered since arriving. She shrugged. ‘If you want to help someone, help Austin Jones.’

‘Oooo, great idea.’ Holly jumped at the prospect. But Woody’s face had turned dark. Roxy felt a scrummy thrill at
seeing this new side of Woody. Mean, moody Woody – she hadn’t known it existed. And
Christ
, it was giving her the horn!

‘No.’ He frowned.

‘Why not?’

‘Austin doesn’t do anything he doesn’t want to.’

Holly laughed. ‘Clearly. He’s just turned his back on making movies. Such a shame.’

‘Total shame,’ Roxy agreed. Although he’d never been her cup of tea (he wasn’t in a band), Austin Jones was undeniably hot and it was a crime against gorgeousness to deny womankind the chance of an ogle. Roxy’s mood brightened. She’d only suggested him to get Woody’s attention, but now she thought about it, Austin was an excellent idea. He was famously handsome … and cosmically famous. Woody may already be taken … but wasn’t the best therapy retail? And God knew she could do with some window-shopping …

‘Trust me; Austin wouldn’t be interested,’ Woody told them.

‘In me?’ Roxy’s motormouth piped up.

Woody looked at her sharply. ‘In the group. He’s not the kind.’

‘What do you mean?’ Holly asked, puzzled.

Woody paused.

Suddenly it seemed like the most important thing in the world that Roxy should get him to change his mind. ‘Look, do you, or do you not clean his windows?’ she demanded.

He nodded.

‘And aren’t you two already mates?’

‘Not exactly …’

‘Come off it, you used to hang out!’

‘I used to see him at parties, we weren’t exactly what you’d call close.’

‘Oh, rock off! It’s not like he’s going to have forgotten you. Ask him. Let
him
decide if he wants to meet up.’

‘Yes, ask him,’ Holly agreed, almost falling off her seat with excitement.

But Woody wasn’t convinced.

‘He’s just retired, in his
thirties!’
Holly added earnestly.
‘And
he threw something nasty at the paparazzi this afternoon. He’s clearly got things he needs to get off his chest—’

‘His taut, manly chest.’ Roxy grinned.

‘And surely that’s the whole point of the group: sharing our experiences with fellow fame survivors; offering a hand of friendship in their moments of crisis?’

‘I wonder if he waxes …’ Roxy mused.

‘He’s not going to want to meet us,’ Woody warned.

‘But you’re Woody!’ Roxy cried. ‘If anyone can persuade him, it’s you!’

Woody looked at the two women. He seemed to be wrestling with something. Roxy fixed him with her flirtiest look, mentally bending him to her will.

‘OK,’ he conceded in exasperation. ‘I’ll ask.’

‘Rock and roll!’ Roxy beamed. Round one may have gone to Jennifer, but round two was definitely hers. Woody had changed his mind. So she didn’t fancy Austin – but she still had her fame protégés to think about. Maybe Austin could call up his movie-star pals, pull a few favours for the group. Yes, Austin Jones could be useful – very useful indeed!

Woody’s pocket suddenly vibrated.

‘Want me to get that?’ she flirted on reflex.

Woody laughed and whipped out his phone. Roxy sneaked a peek at the screen.

‘Hey, baby! How’s it going?’

He motioned that he was going outside. Roxy watched him leave, her good mood already deflating. God, he had a good bum. Delicious – like it was sculpted from marzipan. But then she grimaced. His bum – just like marzipan – was off limits.

And then Roxy and Holly were alone at the bar. Roxy fought the terrible feeling that had sunk to the bottom of her gut. The phone had made Woody look happy: happier than he’d been at the meeting; happier than he’d been in her kitchen. In fact, happier than she’d seen him before. And she didn’t need to be Vorders to work out why.

The name on the phone had been JJ.

Bollocks
.

Round three went to Jennifer – and she wasn’t even there!

Roxy watched Holly pick a bit of fluff off her cardie. She drained her G and T in one gulp.

2.45am @foxyroxy

Teeeny bitt drunk, but so wha? iPod shuffle given paws for though.t. Think iss important we learn lessons from rock …

2.51am @foxyroxy

Sting rekons ifyou love someone set themfree. Dolly begs pleas dontakemyman. Kelis says her milkshake brings allthe boys 2 the yard …

2.56am @foxyroxy

#ROXYSAYS: Whatkindofwomun pinches las MarcJacobs skinnyknit jumper outof nother womanshoppngbasket anyway? You jus don doit. Thanyou+gnight

Simon grabbed a basket and swept into Waitrose. He felt traitorous even thinking it, but maybe it was time he got a new agent.

Actually, he didn’t know why he’d stuck with Barrington so long. The only decent job he’d ever got him had been
Down Town
, and that was fifteen years ago. And since he’d left, they’d never agreed on which direction his career should be taking. They’d argued and debated for so long, the only direction they’d gone in was backwards. How else had Simon gone from prime time to panto? His career – like his relationship with his agent – was one of diminishing returns.

But Simon was nothing if not loyal. Besides, agents generally scared him. He’d met a couple a few years back, over drinks at parties. They’d stuffed their sentences with a rundown of their A-list clients – breathing from the diaphragm to cram in the maximum number of thesps – before looking right through Simon towards someone more
credibly
famous. Simon was, after all, only a soap star – and everyone knew soap stars couldn’t act.

So Simon had stuck with the devil he knew. Twice a week, after dropping the kids at school, he phoned Barrington from his people carrier in Waitrose car park. There wasn’t any reason to call, just a vague hope he might eventually irritate Barrington into finding him a decent job. He rarely got to actually speak to him, inevitably being intercepted by a minion and informed that Barrington was ‘on the other line’. But this morning he’d struck lucky. Somehow the kids had shambled out of bed, through the tricky terrains of showers and breakfasts, and into the back of the people carrier early – well, on time – and Simon had pulled into Waitrose car park a full seven minutes ahead of schedule. Barrington was caught off guard. He forgot to call-screen and Simon had got straight through.

‘Well, there is
something
we could put you forward for,’ Barrington offered doubtfully as he rummaged through his papers to what sounded suspiciously like the bottom of the pile. ‘It’s TV – a young audience. Another villain. They want someone scary.’

‘I don’t want scary,’ Simon reminded him for the eight-hundredth time. ‘I want to move away from Nick.’

‘Mmmm,’ Barrington mused, his mind already elsewhere. ‘There’s not much around; quiet time, darling. Everyone’s recovering from Christmas.’

‘But you said it was quiet
before
Christmas and that everything goes manic in January!’ Simon protested. And then he sighed. ‘OK, tell me about the villain. Which channel’s it for?’ He held his breath and prayed the next words out of Barrington’s mouth would be ‘BBC1’.