Could It Be I'm Falling in Love? (14 page)

Laters!

Roxy sighed; they just weren’t getting it.

‘Look,’ she informed the room bluntly. ‘All this attention is very flattering, but you’re barking up the wrong bush!’

Sitting in a circle in Simon’s living room, six sets of eyes looked at her kindly.

‘You’ve just got to let go,’ said Holly. ‘Trust us; we’re trying to help.’

‘But that’s my point,’ Roxy stressed. ‘It’s not me who needs helping. I’m not the helpee – I’m the helperrr.’

‘You don’t need to keep up the act, Rox.’

‘What act?’ she cried. ‘The only reason I come to these meetings is to sort you guys out. And to check out the …’

‘Check out the what?’ Holly frowned.

Roxy resisted the urge to say ‘view’. Instead, she mumbled, ‘Nothing,’ and avoided looking at Woody.

‘Classic denial,’ Holly declared sadly. ‘It’s a textbook case of the career having stalled but the brain refusing to notice.’

‘My career hasn’t stalled! It’s in top gear, thank you very much – firing like a rocket.’

Terence snorted. ‘Pull the other one! You’ve not been on telly in ages.’

‘I bloody have! I’m on telly all the time; latenight, cutting-edge stuff.’

‘I can’t believe I’m saying this,’ said Simon, ‘but Terry
does
have a point. I’ve not seen any of your shows in a while, either.
And
I’ve got two teenagers in the house.’

‘Christ, who are you people? The
Radio
bloody
Times?
I’m telling you guys, I’m busy, busy, busy. Chock-a-block – no room at the inn.’ Roxy took a deep breath and tried to calm down. ‘Look, the reason I’m here is for
you
. You’re all up shit creek without a teaspoon. But – don’t worry – I’ve got a rockin’ big spade. I’m going to U-turn your fortunes, reboot your careers and frogmarch you up the fame freeway.’

‘Who is she, again?’ Cressida asked suddenly. ‘I know she used to be famous, but other than that I haven’t the foggiest.’

‘She was a television presenter,’ Holly explained.

‘A very funny and talented television presenter …’ added Simon, before ruining it all by adding, ‘In her time.’

Roxy was about to correct him, but Woody started speaking. ‘Our Roxy was the real deal,’ he said fondly. ‘Edgy; subversive; funny. She was part of a girl gang who shook up youth telly.’

For a moment, Roxy basked in the glow of his praise.

‘I still don’t recognise her from Adam,’ Cressida grumbled.

‘She was one of those TV ladettes,’ said Holly. ‘Remember? The girls who acted like boys.’

‘From the nineties,’ helped Simon. ‘One of the originals the papers went nuts for.’

Cressida tutted. ‘Well, I certainly remember
them;
they were a disgrace!’

‘They were brilliant!’ Simon cried. ‘A breath of fresh air. Feminism had got so po-faced. Roxy and her friends really kicked it up the jacksy.’

‘Didn’t they just binge drink and hang around in their knickers?’

‘Well, there was that as well,’ he conceded.

‘Are you the one with the tattoo of the nun on your bottom?’ Sue suddenly piped up from the corner.

‘And a bottle of HP on my hip!’ Roxy grinned.

Holly tapped her pen against the gap in her teeth.

‘Didn’t you go AWOL at Glastonbury?’ she remembered. ‘You were supposed to be live on TV!’

‘Can’t you drink a pint in five seconds?’

‘And burp the national anthem?’

‘Were you the one who punched that lecherous footballer?’

‘And snogged that Hollywood film star on TV for a bet?’

‘Did you go on
Newsnight
and flash your whatsits at Paxman?’

‘Oh, Lord!’ Cressida exclaimed suddenly. ‘Were you the young lady who pinched the Prime Minister’s bottom?’

‘Yes, it was me; all me!’ Roxy beamed proudly.

‘Christ!’ Terence snorted. ‘It’s no bloody wonder you’re not working!’

Roxy stamped her foot. ‘I
am
bloody working! That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. I’m working my arse off; fully booked ‘til next soddin’ Christmas!’

She suddenly noticed Woody looking right at her. ‘We know
your schedule’s busy, Rox,’ he said with a sad smile, ‘but do us a favour, eh? Make sure you come to our meetings. I think it’s really important you’re here.’

And suddenly Roxy’s heart seemed to stop.

Was Woody asking for help?

Had he heard what she’d said about the fame freeway, and this was his way of asking her to step on the gas? Was
this
why he wanted her at the meetings … not to jump her bones, but to enlist her expertise?

She looked into his eyes and felt her skin go all tingly. Sex with former pop gods aside, there was nothing Roxy loved more than a goal … and Woody had just rolled the ball right up to the penalty spot. Everything was clear now; this had been his plan all along! They’d revitalise the group together! She and Woody would be equals; a team … standing shoulder-to-shoulder, singing from the same hymn sheet, sharing the same cheese and pickle sandwich.

‘All right, Woodster,’ she said lightly, her heart finally restarting. ‘You’re on!’

Simon was so surprised, he nearly caught his finger in the whisk attachment of his Kenwood. His mobile was ringing and the name ‘Barrington’ flashed on the display.

‘Simon, darling!’ his agent greeted him with uncharacteristic enthusiasm. ‘I’ve got a gig for you.’

Simon stared at the ingredients littered across the kitchen surface. ‘A gig?’ he echoed numbly and wiped his hands on his pinny.

‘Decent bucks, leading role, TV.’

‘What’s the catch?’ Simon quickly threw up his guard. Barrington never offered him a job without being badgered for it first. This one had to be a stinker.

‘No audition necessary, sweetie; they’re shooting next month – asked specifically for you.’

Simon breathed from the diaphragm and summoned his best BAFTA-worthy authoritative tone.
‘Barrington!’

‘It’s an ad,’ the agent admitted lightly.

‘An ad?’ Simon swallowed hard. ‘Well, that’s not so bad.’ He tried to be positive. ‘I mean, if it’s OK for Clooney … Linda
practically climbs into the screen when his coffee ads are on. And doesn’t Ewan McGregor do beer ads in Japan?’ Actually, the more Simon thought about it, the better it seemed. Some adverts were really filmic. His mind began to race. Maybe his ad would be for Guinness, or Stella Artois, or a sports car … an
Italian
sports car! He suddenly imagined himself speeding along in a soft-top down the zigzag roads of the Amalfi. Could Barrington
just this once
have pulled it off? ‘What for?’ he blurted excitedly.

‘There’ll be hours of airtime, darling – and I mean
hours!
They’re planning a long transmission window on all the major channels. You’ll be on every daytime ad break for weeks. It’s just what you’ve always wanted: Simon Drennan – housewives’ favourite.’

‘What’s it
for
, Barrington?’

‘Something vital. Something needed.’

‘What’s it
FOR
?’

‘Insurance.’

With a pop, the Amalfi imploded before him; not the vibrant thump of a champagne cork, more the listless fart of a bottle of flat cola.

‘
Funeral
insurance,’ Barrington continued buoyantly. ‘They’ve got a fabulous idea, inspired by your soap death. “Legendary,” the client called your spread-eagle. So it’s not just any old ad, it’s a tailor-made campaign. You won’t even need to be in character – just yourself. You know the kind of thing … “When I died the first time, I didn’t know what’d hit me. But when I do it for real, I’ll be smiling, because this time I’ll die safe
in the knowledge that my loved ones won’t be left scrabbling in the dirt.” You get the gist.’

‘You want me to endorse funeral insurance?’

‘It’s on TV.’

‘But it’s not even acting—’

‘You’ll be the new face of funeral planning!’

‘-it’s just flogging a product.’

‘Think of it as diversifying your CV; opening yourself up to a new audience.’

‘But it’s a sales job. It’s practically bloody retail!’

‘It’s fabulous money …’

And then, like an out-of-body experience Simon heard himself ask something terrible.

‘How fabulous?’

And then he put down the phone and rang Linda.

‘It’s not so bad, love,’ she said encouragingly. ‘George Clooney does ads.’

‘Not funeral insurance ads; not filmed in an office in Basingstoke. I’m telling you, Linda, this is the end of the road. It’s right down there with opening supermarkets.’

‘Oh, sweetheart.’

‘Fuck! I’m over!’ Simon slid down the kitchen cabinet, his pinny ballooning in his lap. ‘My career is actually over.’

‘Oh, honey – if you don’t want to do the ad, just say no.

It’s not like we need the money. My salary more than covers us, and your panto money is brilliant …’

‘For six months a year,’ Simon muttered.

‘What I mean is, we’re not exactly going to starve. And Nick
Fletcher paid off the mortgage – remember?’ Linda sighed. ‘Simon, love, don’t do anything you’re not happy with. Look, why don’t you tell Barrington to stuff his crummy advert? In fact, tell Barrington to stuff everything. You’re too good for him. He shouldn’t be sending you adverts – he should be sending you dramas.’

‘Rom-coms,’ Simon automatically corrected.

‘That’s the spirit. Why don’t you get back on the phone
right now
and tell Barrington where he can stick his crappy funeral insurance? He’s a waste of space, that man. I ought to sue him for professional incompetence.’

‘You’re a defence lawyer.’

‘Well I’ll sue him for indefensible conduct.’

Simon put down the phone, hauled himself up and straightened his apron. He switched the Kenwood back on and bleakly watched the ingredients spin in the bowl. Maybe Linda was right. Maybe he shouldn’t just roll over and accept his lot. Maybe he
did
deserve better. He spooned some cream cheese into the mixture and wondered whether to add more vanilla. He’d ring Barrington later and give him a piece of his mind; tell him he was better than CBeebies and ads, that he was a former soap-opera superstar who just happened to be momentarily resting in panto on his way to bigger and better. Yes, Barrington had better take cover because he, Simon Drennan, would give him what-for. He just needed to prepare himself first: do some breathing exercises; get in the zone.

Roxy bundled down the stairs and flicked the kettle on.

According to legend, Mossy once said, ‘Nothing tastes as good as skinny feels.’ And, although Roxy reckoned skinny actually tasted hard (not to mention miserable, empty and a little bit tinny in your mouth), she had to commend Mossy on her single-mindedness. Lately she’d been so lost in lusting after Woody that she’d forgotten to focus. She needed to remember what was what. At heart, she was a career girl – and her heart shouldn’t get in the way. Woody was already taken, and besides, Roxy already had a Significant Other –
work
. And there was no ride like the fame ride (despite all the Woody kiss-and-tells).

No, Roxy vowed in her Spice Girls nightshirt as she reached for her ‘girl power’ mug, there would be no more thinking about Woody – other than in a professional partnership sense. There would be no more watching his old videos on YouTube, no more obsessing about his sex smell and no more peeks at his marzipan bum. She and Woody were on a mission – joint mentors for the group. Yep, that was it, she thought as
the kettle boiled itself off. Her days of perving Woody were over.