Could It Be I'm Falling in Love? (13 page)

Roxy hesitated. She didn’t like to say her invitation had got lost in the post. These days a party invitation stating ‘plus one’ usually referred to an under five. Roxy was a party veteran of many years standing, but this new breed of party was beyond her. Of all the clubs she’d ever belonged to, the kindergarten club had the toughest membership code.

‘I was working.’ She settled on bluster.

‘Ah!’ Tish marvelled brightly. ‘Ever the committed career girl! So how’s life in the media rat race?’

‘Oh, you know …’ Roxy fudged. She didn’t want to lie – Tish was her best friend. But she didn’t exactly want to tell the truth, either … especially not whilst she was sitting in Tish’s 100k kitchen in her two-million-pound house, whilst her eminently successful husband was being chauffeured from power-meeting to power-meeting and her pompously-named children were writing Latin verse in their six-grand-a-term school. Besides, what was the point in telling the truth? The next big job was just around the corner. Everything could be different next week. It was only a temporary blip in her workflow.

Tish nodded enthusiastically. ‘God, I really admire how you’ve kept working,’ she gushed. ‘I just didn’t have the energy. But you … You’ve got more staying power than the Duracell bunny. I don’t think any of us lot have set foot in a nightclub since 2005, but you just keep on going. And you’re looking amazing, Rox – still the same Foxy Roxy. Not like me; I’m such
a frump these days. You know, I look back and I can’t believe some of the outfits we used to go out in. Do you remember that award ceremony we went to handcuffed together?’

Roxy laughed. ‘And that night at the Met Bar dressed as nuns?’

Tish squealed with delight. ‘I laughed so hard I think I actually wet myself. It was the first time in years we’d worn anything that covered our midriffs.’

‘Apart from that rubber catsuit.’ Roxy grinned. ‘Remember …? The one you wore for that beer ad? The director fancied you so much he let you keep it.’

‘Now, that’s a part of the past that Guy doesn’t mind revisiting.’

‘I’ll bet he doesn’t.’

‘Anyway, never mind all that bollocks.’ Tish swept her past away with a swish of a tastefully-manicured hand. She suddenly looked mischievous. ‘Let’s cut the starter and skip to the sausage, shall we? So, Roxanne, are you getting any pork?’

Roxy squirmed, and tried not to imagine Woody in the buff.

‘There
is
someone,’ she said slowly, ‘but it’s complicated.’

‘Don’t be daft – since when are men complicated?’ Tish scoffed. ‘They’re as intricate as tights!’

‘It’s Woody.’

‘Woody?’ Tish was momentarily silenced. ‘What
the
Woody? Woody,
The Woodeniser? Woodypecker?
The scrummy pop star with the cute hair and Rear-of-the-Year arse?’

‘Runner-up,’ Roxy corrected her flatly. ‘His arse was runner-up.’

‘Whatever. You do mean
Woody?
The one who was top of the charts for five years and every woman in the country was desperate to bonk?’

‘Yes.
That
Woody.’

‘Bloody hell, Rox!’ Tish exclaimed, impressed. And then she thought for a moment. ‘Didn’t we have a fight over him on the school bus?’

Roxy nodded.

‘Did you win?’

Roxy nodded again.

Tish looked thoughtful. ‘Is he still hot?’

‘Scorching.’

‘So what’s the problem? A hot guy like him, a cool girl like you … Sounds like a slam dunk!’

‘He’s taken, Tish,’ Roxy said glumly.

‘What? Married?’

‘Not sure.’

‘Kids?’

‘Don’t think so.’

‘So he’s not
taken
taken then!’

Roxy frowned. ‘No, Tish, he’s taken; he’s very, very taken. He’s got this amazing, wonderful girlfriend called Jennifer, who’s the closest thing to a living saint. She’s a workaholic genius; queen of the boardroom, or something. Everyone thinks she’s amazing and beautiful, and he’s obviously completely in love with her—’

‘But not in love with her enough to marry her,’ Tish interrupted dryly. ‘Don’t worry about it, Roxster. If he’s not taken
her up the aisle, he’s fair game. Besides, he obviously fancies you.’

‘I didn’t say that.’

‘You didn’t have to. Of course he’s fancies you, you’re sex on legs! Really, Rox… you need to bitch up. Girlfriend, schmirl-friend. I don’t know what you’re doing wasting time on my sofa. You should be over at his place, working your assets.’

‘But how can you say that?’ Roxy protested. ‘You’re married – you’ve got a family! And besides, I thought we were all about girl power? Didn’t you always say never to shit on a sister’s doorstep?’

‘Yeah, well, I was young and idealistic back then,’ Tish conceded. ‘And probably drunk. And, honestly, you should see how some of our so-called sisters act when it comes to getting their little darlings into the right schools. It’s every bitch for herself.’ Tish stopped and sighed. ‘Look, Rox, it’s all very well being Mrs Moral, but get real …
this is Woody we’re talking about!
You doodled his name on every pencil case you ever had. If you don’t give it a whirl, you’ll regret it for the rest of your life.’

Roxy sighed. That bit was certainly true.

‘So you’re saying I should just go for it?’ She frowned. ‘That I should just forget about Jennifer, and go all out for Woody?’

‘Like a merciless, heat-seeking missile.’

Roxy picked up her tea. Tish’s plan sounded good, and God knew she was tempted. But something was holding her back. And it wasn’t just shock at Tish’s standards.

‘No,’ she said quietly. ‘It’s not right.’

Tish looked at her strangely. ‘Yeah, well, you’re probably too busy for a boyfriend anyway,’ she conceded. ‘I mean, you’re married to your job, right?’

Roxy searched her friend’s face for a trace of mockery.

‘Leaf salad OK?’ Tish got up and headed for the fridge. ‘Tomatoes are a bugger to work off, and my nutritionist reckons cucumber gives you crow’s feet.’

‘Leaf salad sounds fine,’ Roxy mumbled hollowly as she looked at her unfamiliar best friend. Suddenly Woody seemed further from reach than ever.

The morning was frosty and beautiful. All he could hear was the blood pounding in his ears and the beat of his feet on the pavement. It was Woody’s favourite time of the day and he was nearing the end of his run.

Throughout his twenties, Woody had barely set foot into the clean air of a morning – unless he’d been booked on to breakfast TV, and even then he’d never breathed actual air, being bundled straight from a hotel lobby into the air-con of a chauffeur-driven car. It was only when his career was over that he rediscovered the beauty of mornings, and he suddenly realised just how many crisp, clean sunrises he’d missed. Almost three thousand, he reckoned – slept through, unnoticed or ignored. Three thousand chances to get up before the rest of the world and run through the empty streets whilst everything was untouched by the day. An early-morning jog had been one of the unexpected joys of his post pop-star life. And now, five times a week, he kicked the day off with a run, a shower and a home-cooked sausage sandwich.

He loved Lavender Heath. It was different to the other places
he’d lived in: Notting Hill, Chelsea Wharf … He’d even had the obligatory rock-star country pad for a while – a vast, cavernous manor with a helipad. Someone had sold it for him whilst he’d been wallowing on his couch in London. They’d done him a favour. By the time he’d come to, he knew he needed to get out of the city – and moving into a manor wasn’t exactly the new start he was after. Something modest was what he wanted now. He’d wandered, clueless, into the nearest estate agent’s. The woman who’d brought him to Lavender Heath couldn’t have been mortal, he decided. She must have been some kind of superhuman estate agent, normal on the outside, but blessed with the superpower to divine her client’s perfect pad. The small but attractive house she’d found him was perfect.
Lavender Heath
was perfect.

Woody sped past Roxy’s house, its curtains drawn; the place – like its owner – still asleep. He smiled as he saw her neonpink door, defiant amongst Lavender Heath’s Farrow-and-Ball tones. And then, a few minutes later, he rounded the corner to Bramble Lane and jogged up his drive.

Breakfasted, showered and ready to go, Woody picked up his ladder and made the short walk over to Cressida’s to start the day’s round. He liked Cressida. She wasn’t most people’s cup of tea but Woody always found something admirable about her. If there was one thing you could rely on, it was for her never to soft-soap. Cressida was more likely to bang heads than group hug. But she was sharp, positive and one of life’s doers … and that was the heart of the problem. Cressida
needed a purpose – something that wasn’t just politics. But her whole life had been party political, and now nothing was left in its place.

Cressida’s house was characteristically practical. If she’d fiddled her expenses, she might be living in one of Lavender Heath’s roomier piles. Instead, Cressida’s small home was conveniently close to the station and shops, and boasted a garden of low-maintenance shrubs, two modest bedrooms and a study. It may not have had the elaborate prettiness of its neighbours, but it was sensible and fashion-resistant.

‘Good morning,’ Cressida greeted him crisply as she opened her front door and stood stiffly aside so he could head into her kitchen to fill his bucket. Cressida Cunningham was a woman of routines, and Woody knew this one. He wouldn’t get coffee until the cleaning was completed – and even then he’d end up making their drinks himself. But he didn’t mind. It wasn’t that Cressida was lazy – it was just that drink-making wasn’t in her remit. It was what other people did.

‘I can’t get my blasted television to work,’ she grumbled later, as Woody spooned out the Gold Blend. There were no fancy coffee machines in Cressida’s kitchen. ‘I fail to see why everything had to go digital. I was perfectly happy with five channels and one remote. Now I’ve got a blasted remote control for everything – and not one of the stupid things works!’

That was another thing Cressida wasn’t so good at – modern life.

‘Here; let me take a look,’ Woody offered. She was constantly having trouble with her appliances, from her BlackBerry to
her burglar alarm. She obviously had a brain the size of a planet – her walls were lined with photos of her with world leaders, and her bookshelves stuffed with hardbacks on economics – but simple, everyday gadgets had her foxed.

‘Of course, when I was working I never had to bother with any of this.’ Cressida waved her hand at the collection of remotes littering her table. ‘I was too busy to waste time grappling with appliances or placing phone calls. My assistants did all that for me.’

‘You didn’t make phone calls?’ Woody snorted.

‘I didn’t dial the numbers; my secretary did. I just picked up the phone and whomever I wanted to speak to would be waiting. Of course, I dial the numbers
now
– or at least I try. But phones have become so complicated. Half of them don’t even have buttons!’

For a brief moment Cressida looked smaller than normal. But then she rallied herself.

‘Still, Westminster is a strange little bubble to live in, and there’s no point harping on about the past.’ She straightened her shoulders. ‘Onwards and upwards. He who hesitates
stagnates.’

‘Exactly!’ Woody grinned. He pressed a few buttons and Sky News filled the screen.

‘How did you do that?’ She was amazed. ‘Well, thank you, Woody. I don’t know what I’d do without you. In fact, I was thinking, maybe I should get myself one of those gimps.’

Woody choked. ‘Come again?’

‘You know;
gimps!’
she fixed him with one of her looks that
rendered the recipient in no doubt of her assessment of their intellectual capabilities. ‘I read about them in the
Daily Mail
. If one wants one’s house cleaned or garden tended, it’s simple to find someone for the job. But what I really need is one of those IT gimps who do all the technological stuff, like flittering your spam and setting your video.’

‘Oh, right!’ Woody laughed in relief. He rubbed his head. ‘But maybe don’t say that to anyone else, Cress.’

‘About my video?’

‘You actually still have one of those?’

‘Of course.’

‘No, I mean that you’re after a gimp.’

‘Why ever not?’ Cressida tsked. ‘I can’t tell you the hassle I have when the clocks go back. So many blasted things to reset. No, bring me a gimp, that’s what I say. And maybe he could sort out my thermostat whilst he’s at it. Now, how’s that coffee coming along? And go easy on the milk this time; the last cup you made me was awful – I never knew coffee could be anaemic.’

Woody touched his imaginary cap. ‘Yes, ma’am.’

‘And less of the cheek, young man. Window cleaners are two-a-penny,’ Cressida scolded, a twinkle playing about her eyes. ‘And not half as useful as a gimp!’

To:
Roxy Squires

From:
MTV

Hey Foxy Roxy!

Cheers for getting in touch. Sorry, but we don’t need new presenters at the mo. Well, we do, but we’ve got the blonde thing covered (unless your dad’s a rock star? Joke!!!). Anyway, about your idea that we pimp your ride … we’re not really doing that any more. Ditto your suggestion about your crib. Oh, and your idea that we follow you for a fly-on-the-wall series … we’re not sure our viewers know who you are! You could try VH1, tho … They’re about to start shooting
Celebs Our ‘Rents Used 2 Fancy
 …