Could It Be I'm Falling in Love? (12 page)

‘Your wife left you because you lost your
job?’
Sue looked shocked.

‘The best years of my life I gave her.
And
my employer. And neither stood by me when the shit hit the fan.’

‘Oh, Terence.’

‘But your employer wouldn’t have been able to stand by you after that,’ Woody reasoned. ‘Even the continuity announcer introduced you as Tornado.’

‘He’d always had it in for me. It wasn’t my fault the viewers never got to see him.’

‘And you’re sure your wife didn’t leave you because of your enormous persecution complex and complete inability to move on?’ Simon smirked.

‘Yes, well,’ Cressida interjected. ‘Stiff upper lip, and all that.’

‘It’s all right for you, Cressida,’ Terence said indignantly. ‘Politicians have respect. I’m just a joke! My career’s now nothing more than a Trivial Pursuit answer.’

‘Yeah?’ Roxy was impressed. ‘What colour?’

Terence looked awkward. ‘Pink.’

Everyone winced.

‘I’m a meteorologist! I should be bloody green!’

‘I think you’ve been treated very unfairly.’ Sue touched Terence’s arm and he momentarily calmed. ‘Everyone knows how changeable the British weather is. They hardly ever get it right.’

‘They get it a lot more right without Terence,’ Simon muttered.

‘Look, everyone.’ Woody stepped in before Terence could rant again. ‘We’re not here to score points! What we
did
doesn’t matter; it’s what we’re
going to do
that counts. We need to work out what we’re good at now.’ He looked around encouragingly. ‘Any ideas?’

Silence.

‘Simon’s good at cooking,’ Holly offered.

‘Oh, great!’ Simon snorted. ‘Forget the BAFTAs – my future’s fairy cakes!’

‘Anything else?’ Woody tried again.

More silence. They all inspected their laps. All of them, that was, except Roxy, who was inspecting Woody instead. It was weird seeing Woody be normal. She kept waiting for him to burst into lip-synch, or rip off his shirt and reveal a vest. But instead he kept banging on about self-help. She wanted his body, not his advice. And besides, she didn’t need to think of an alternative career because she
still had a career
– she was still totally famous!

Mind, she couldn’t help feeling sorry for the gang. They were obviously suffering from some kind of mental status-shift delay. It must be crap to have fame and then lose it, but they only had themselves to blame. Staying famous was easier than ever –
had they learnt nothing from Madonna, for rock’s sake?
No scandal was bad enough to career-kill. Unless you were Gary Glitter or James Blunt – although, for the life of her, Roxy couldn’t work out what poor Blunty had done to make everyone hate him, other than sell a gazillion records and snog loads of models. But other than being a paedophile or James Blunt, it seemed you could get away with anything … drugs, booze, adultery, sex-addiction, shoplifting, hitting attendants in toilets, waving your willy at policemen in toilets – even getting engaged to Darren Day, if you were sorry about it later. A Piers Morgan interview could get you back on track in a week – and bigger than ever before. Mud no longer stuck, it just gave you extra traction for getting up the ladder.

Satisfied with her assessment, Roxy’s eye wandered over to the mini cheesecakes again. They’d done several circuits of
the room and were now sitting on a nest of tables, right under her nose. She could’ve cursed Simon for bringing them. Was she the only person here career-minded enough to diet? She leant forward, about to edge them away, but suddenly found herself frozen. She hadn’t been this close to a cheesecake in years. They looked at her enticingly. Despite a lifetime of training to remove herself from the scene of calorific temptation – it was the fight or flight principle, only with saturated fat – Roxy’s mouth suddenly watered. She’d forgotten the alluring texture of cheesecakes: solid, yet soft, their creamy flesh inviting – luring you to sin. Of all cakes, the cheesecake was the most seductive: a femme fatale of puddings, beguiling even the most devout dieter into a ruinous state of cellulite.

‘Any news on Austin Jones?’ she blurted in panic, breaking the silence of the room. She wrestled her eyes over to Woody, but then realised she’d just swapped one form of temptation for another. She tried not to think badly about Jennifer. It wasn’t her fault she’d found Woody first.

Everyone looked up, grateful for the diversion.

‘Yes, contacting Austin was Roxy’s idea,’ Holly excitedly announced. ‘And a brilliant one, too! I mean, can we think of anyone who needs our support
more?’

‘Austin Jones?’ Simon looked strange. ‘Are we sure that’s a good idea?’

‘We’re not,’ Woody agreed, dark and broody once again.

Cressida looked confused.

‘I don’t understand. Why wouldn’t it be a good idea?’

Simon faltered. ‘Well, he’s just… you know …
Austin Jones
. Way out of our league – even yours, Woods – no offence.’

Woody’s jaw clenched ever so slightly.

‘I mean, we’re just a bunch of soap stars and weathermen. We’ve had fame, but nothing like him. He’s
world
famous.’

‘He’s hardly Mandela,’ Cressida scoffed.

‘Yeah, what’s the problem, Si?’ hectored Terence. ‘Worried he’ll make you look little-league?’

Roxy was gobsmacked. Woody and Simon were looking so grave! ‘Come on, you lot, anyone would think that you don’t want to rub shoulders with a mega-star. Austin rocks!’

‘Is
on
the rocks!’ Terence snorted.

‘The poor man,’ Sue piped up sympathetically. ‘The photographers are giving him such a terrible time. It’s awful, being under siege in your own home – unable to set foot outdoors without a dozen people taking your photo. So lonely. We can all relate to that.’

Everyone thought for a moment. Even Simon conceded the point.

‘So, it’s agreed?’ Holly paused her pen over her notebook. Everyone but Simon and Woody nodded. ‘Well, it’s going in the minutes as an official action point:
Woody to approach Austin.’

Roxy let out a whoop. And then she watched Simon pack away the cheesecakes, his face as pale as their toppings.

To:
Roxy Squires

From:
Channel Five, Talent Department

Dear Roxie,

Thank you for your email, suggesting yourself as a Five on-screen presenter.

As you can imagine, we get inundated with showreels from aspiring presenters, and I’m afraid we have no requirements for on-screen talent at this time.

Best of luck with your search for employment.

To:
Roxy Squires

From:
Channel Five, Talent Department

Dear Roxie,

Yes, we are aware of your substantial back catalogue. But we
still
have no requirements for on-screen talent at this time.

Best of luck with your search for employment.

To:
Roxy Squires

From:
Channel Five, Talent Department

Dear Roxy,

Thank you for your email congratulating us on the ‘Gang Of Five’, the five new faces of Five, launched on-air this week.

We at Five have an on-going commitment to unearthing dynamic, new presenting talent – as well as celebrating the nation’s favourite, established presenters. Why not follow our new line-up of hosts on Twitter (@gangofFive), or vote for them at the forthcoming TV WOW awards? The gang would be grateful for your support!

We have attached their signed photo as thanks!

Somewhere in the most affluent enclave of St John’s Wood, an elaborate front door swung open and a beautiful woman with Green & Black’s hair swore in surprise.

‘Roxanne Squires; I don’t bloody believe it! I know you said you’d be here for lunch, but in your world that usually means six!’

‘Bloody cheek.’ Roxy rolled her eyes.

And then the woman launched herself through the doorway and threw her arms around her friend.

‘Good to see you, you old tart!’ Tish hugged her tightly. ‘How are you? Still flying the flag for all us lushes?’

‘Someone’s got to keep the faith.’

‘Too right,’ the brunette nodded earnestly. ‘Don’t be a sellout, like the rest of us. I’m telling you – all this domestic harmony bollocks is overrated. I’d stick my kids on eBay for a big night out on the tiles.’

Roxy raised an eyebrow. ‘There’s nothing stopping you, Tish. I brought my make-up bag; we can go out tonight, if you like?’

‘Party like it’s 1997?’

‘Party like it’s 1997!’

Tish paused for a moment, misty eyed. Roxy gave her a nudge.

‘Come on, Tish; you know you want to. It’ll be just like the good old days. Let’s trowel on some lippy and crack open a bottle of Jack. Guy can babysit.’

Tish sighed wistfully. ‘And back in the real world … cup of peppermint tea?’

‘If I have to …’ Roxy grimaced.

‘Sorry, Rox.’ Tish ushered her through the front door. ‘It’s a booze-free, caffeine-free, fun-free house these days. You know how it is.’

‘Yeah – I know how it is,’ Roxy mumbled as she followed her friend into the kitchen. It was true; she
did
know how it was … but what she couldn’t get her head around was
why
. Tish was her oldest friend and partner in crime from when they’d first moved to London and discovered the neon-lit playground of Soho’s late bars. For seven super-short years they’d shared more laughs, big nights out and debilitating hangovers than most people got through in a lifetime, and Roxy still felt winded by the speed with which their fun had suddenly died. The kids bit she got.
Of course
when Tish had kids they were going to have to call a halt to the wild all-nighters; but it was the born-again purity that stumped her. OK, so Tish had always liked a drink, but it wasn’t like she’d been an alcoholic. So what was with the teetotalling? And where was the harm in a full-strength tea, for rock’s sake? Roxy blamed Guy, Tish’s minted but tedious husband. It was like he’d won the girlfriend
jackpot, defying the odds to miraculously bag himself the coolest girl at the party. But, bit by bit, Guy had sucked out all of Tish’s fun bits. The Tish that was left
talked
like the old Tish and
moved
like the old Tish, but she wasn’t the old Tish. She didn’t look right. New Tish was immaculate in neat black pedal pushers and black ballet pumps (not heels or trainers …
ballet pumps!
), and her hair was salon-immaculate – no longer back-combed, dip-dyed or tied into ironic bunches. Whereas old Tish worked like a demon, partied like a warrior and had a weakness for bass players in broom cupboards, new Tish worshipped at the altars of pilates, school runs and early nights. It was as though Roxy’s best friend had married Professor Higgins and not some city bloke with cuff links and jowls.

‘Organic oatcake?’ Tish proffered a plate of roughage. ‘Gluten free!’

‘No, ta.’ Roxy waved the oatcakes away. It wasn’t hard. They looked as tempting as herpes. ‘So where are Seraphina and Rufus?’ she tried to ask brightly. She ignored how uncomfortably the names sat on her tongue. She still couldn’t believe Tish had such terribly named kids. She’d always sworn she’d never have children but had promised that if she
did
accidentally pop a few out, she’d call them something inappropriate, like Randy, Fanny or Butch.

‘At school, silly.’ Tish laughed. ‘Big places – lots of books, remember? Although you probably never made it further than the bike sheds!’

‘Where I was too busy smoking fags with you.’

‘Too busy showing the boys our knickers, more like.’

‘That was essential vocational training. I seem to remember we both made a career out of showing boys our pants.’

‘Shhh!’ Tish hushed her, despite the house being empty. ‘We don’t talk about that any more.’

‘Guy’s rewritten history, has he? Handily forgotten his old subscription to
FHM?’

‘Let’s just put it this way – he’s blocked the kids’ access to YouTube. Doesn’t want them stumbling across any of Mummy’s old TV shows by mistake.’

‘It was alternative youth telly, not late night baps and flaps! And you were a brilliant presenter. You interviewed the Beastie Boys and Oasis – you were voted the coolest woman on TV, Guy should be proud of you!’

‘He is, he is,’ Tish mollified. ‘He just doesn’t like me going on about it, that’s all.’ She looked sad for a moment. Roxy felt bad. OK, so Guy wouldn’t have been
her
choice, but she didn’t want to slag off her best mate’s man. As she looked at her friend, she suddenly wondered if Tish missed her old life. Of course,
she
always wished they could go back to the good old days, but did Tish ever wish that too? Did she ever wonder what might have been when she turned on the telly? Tish had always been the most talented of their group, the one the stars preferred to be interviewed by. She’d made everything she presented look easy.

‘Have you seen any of the others lately?’ Roxy asked. ‘Any of the old gang?’

‘Course!’ Tish grinned, her mood instantly cheering. ‘Last weekend. Gabriella’s sixth … You know, Genna’s youngest?
Genna hired Cirque du Soleil for the party. Hey, why weren’t you there?’