Could It Be I'm Falling in Love? (15 page)

Really.

No, seriously – she
had
to be strict.

With a new sense of purpose, she briskly brewed up a cuppa and rummaged in her drawer for a straw. She then sat at the kitchen table, checked the time on her iPhone and slapped on a quick Veet moustache. As she waited for her tea to cool and her tash to dissolve, she opened
OK!
and set to work.

How
does
a former weatherman get back on TV if he’s too discredited to forecast? she wondered as she flicked through the pages of creosote-dipped stars. Well, there was always the long route back: the yawnsome process of paying dues and starting again from scratch. Sure, Terry could open a few shopping centres, or crack jokes as an after-dinner speaker … It would take decades, but someone, somewhere was bound to eventually offer him a comeback.

But Roxy wasn’t interested in the long game. She’d always been more of a grab–’em-by-the-balls kind of girl. She didn’t want to
mildly
impress the group – she wanted shock and awe! The media didn’t ‘do’ patient people, and Terry and the gang had waited long enough. She and Woody were going to get them fast, spectacular results – to catapult them back to fame like Usain Bolt on rocket fuel. She was going to relight their spotlights, even if she had to blow a fuse to do it!

She took a determined sip of tea from her straw and counted down the minutes ‘til she could scrape off her tash. It was time Roxy Squires got cracking.

Sue was about to speak when a little old lady beat her to it.

‘Do you have my puzzles magazine, dear? And could you help me find
Take A Break?
I’ve left my glasses at home and I can’t see for toffee without them.’

The newsagent came round from the other side of the counter, bypassed Sue and – chatting extra loudly – helped the old lady hobble back to the magazines.

Sue did her best to look cross, but nobody noticed. All she wanted was her
Times
so she could do the crossword. It wasn’t even as if she needed to pay. She settled her bill monthly, by cheque, in the post. The plan had been to be in and out and back to her kitchen as quickly as possible. She’d only left home out of necessity; the paper boy hadn’t shown up that morning and, when she’d phoned to find out his whereabouts, she’d been told he was in bed, sick, and would she mind popping in to pick up her
Times
herself, seeing as she was only a couple of minutes away? Actually, she did mind; she minded very much. Not that she didn’t feel sorry for the poor paper boy, but ‘popping in’ meant an unscheduled trip to the shops, and
if she’d known
that
was on the cards she’d have prepared early with deep breathing and a pot of green tea. But, of course, she couldn’t actually say any of this because it wouldn’t be nice – and besides, the newsagent had already put down the phone.

‘Oh, blow me down, it was there all the time!’ exclaimed the little old lady as the newsagent pressed a brightly-coloured magazine into her hands.

Sue tried to breathe deeply. If she didn’t get served in the next ten seconds, she’d have to abandon her
Times
and bolt out of the shop. And she really didn’t want to do that – partly because she’d look like one of those rude London-types who thought they were too important to wait for little old ladies, but more importantly because that would mean she’d have no crossword for today, and that would only leave the cleaning and ironing to keep her occupied, which would barely see her beyond two o’clock …
and then what would she do?
But the newsagent was still trapped by the chatty old lady, so Sue was left marooned at the counter, mustering all her will to anchor her feet to the floor and stop herself breaking into a sweat.

‘Any chance of some service?’ a deep voice boomed from behind her, making Sue jump.

The newsagent ditched the old lady and hurried back.

Sue turned to look at the voice. She couldn’t believe it had been so easy to get the newsagent’s attention. She wished she’d had the chutzpah to do it. The voice belonged to a builder, holding a Mars bar and
The Sun
. He must be one of the men working on the hole in Blackberry Lane, Sue decided. And
then, completely oblivious to the fact that she’d been queueing before him, the builder reached across her and dropped his money on to the counter.

‘Have a good day!’ The newsagent smiled sunnily.

The builder nodded, turned to leave and accidentally bumped into Sue, knocking her right off her axis.

Quick as a flash, he reached out and steadied her. His hand firmly clasped her elbow. ‘Sorry, love, didn’t see you there.’ He smiled – held her arm just a fraction too long – and then strode on out of the shop.

Feeling more than a little bit flustered, Sue showed her
Times
to the newsagent (whose smile wasn’t quite as warm for her) and scuttled up the road towards home. Her heart was racing, but then again, it always raced. She was perpetually anxious, even at home on her own. Some things never changed – Sue’s nerves and invisibility included. Whenever she did venture out of her front door, people always forgot to serve her – or bumped into her – or trod on her feet. It was as though they couldn’t see her. She’d spent so many years hoping nobody would notice her, it was as though her wish had come true. She’d become invisible.
But not today
, she thought with a smile. Today she’d been noticed. And the person who’d seen her had touched her too. Not a bump or a nudge or a brush as they hurried to somewhere important – this was a deliberate touch. Beneath her coat, her elbow felt hot from the builder’s hand. It was as though her whole arm was blushing at the contact. And the more she thought about his strong, steady grip, his economical but polite ‘Sorry, love, didn’t see
you there’, the more Sue felt her face follow in tandem. But then she remembered where she was – or rather, where she wasn’t. She pulled her newspaper to her chest, quickened her pace and visualised the safety of her front door.

Halfway through the next meeting, Roxy got it.

She’d been zoning out of a Cressida monologue about the Jacobean levels of back-stabbing in modern politics, sitting in the room that interior design forgot – aka Terence’s living room. She’d been wondering quite how Tornado Terry had managed to time-travel his house back from 1972. The place was a bilious swirl of oranges and browns, with a carpet that doubled as a migraine. The sofas were decked out with lace doilies, the walls infected with an outbreak of cuckoo clocks, and Roxy had bet herself fifty quid that if she nipped to the loo she’d find a doll in a knitted dress squatting down on the spare bog roll.

And then, just as she peered at their host – lounging, cardigan-clad, on a mustard, wing-back armchair – inspiration hit!

Roxy almost yelped with joy.

Her Terry strategy was clear. A comeback slot as the homeowner on
DIY SOS
, followed by a garden makeover on
Ground Force
, an MOT from Gok Wan and chat-show repentance with
Titchmarsh. It was easy – career rehabilitation in four simple steps.

‘Bingo.’ She grinned over at Woody.

‘Nutcase,’ he replied with a smile.

It took her longer than usual to walk to Woody’s. It was still early and the sun was too wimpy to melt the frost on the pavements. Top Shop stilettos were good for many things, but grip on unsalted surfaces wasn’t one of them. But she was here, in one piece, at last. Roxy gripped her Tupperware box and took a long, deep breath. This was it: business time – time to separate the wheat from the chaff, the yolk from the egg white, the pink and yellow Battenberg squares. Mentally, she switched off her flirt switch. And then she power-walked up Woody’s short drive.

She knocked on the door. It opened. And Roxy tried not to gasp.

Woody was topless.

Wet-haired and bare-chested, his T-shirt was in his left hand.
Talk about being tested at the first hurdle!
She tried not to ogle his muscles. It took a Herculean effort, but she wrenched her eyeline up.

‘We need to talk,’ she managed to squeak. Somewhere in his house, the radio was blaring. ‘You know – diaries and
strategies and all that. I brought us a business breakfast.’ She held up her box of fruit salad.

Woody shrugged his T-shirt on.

‘Sorry. What? I haven’t got time for breakfast. I’ve got to go to work.’ He patted his pockets for his wallet.

‘But this
is
work! We need to brainstorm and cook up some plans.’

‘Plans for what?’

‘Duh! World domination!’

Woody looked at her blankly.

‘For the group,’ she explained with a laugh.

He frowned. His chest was now double-wrapped in a sweatshirt. ‘Rox, what on earth are you on about?’

‘You know – last night! All that stuff about me staying with the group? The code about us working together.’

‘But we
are
working together. We’re
all
working together.’

He bent down to put on his work boots. Roxy had to stop herself from craning her neck to check out his arse.

‘Yeah, ‘course,’ she agreed, enjoying the unexpected power rush of having Woody at her feet, ‘but I think we can work better, don’t you? Now, if I could just come in, I’ve got a few ideas to run past you. I thought we could draw up a schedule.’

Woody finished his laces and stood up.

‘But we’ve got a schedule. We meet every Thursday.’

‘Not that kind of schedule – an
action
schedule. For Project Spotlight.’

He laughed, and shook his head, bemused. And then he picked up his coffee mug from the ledge by the door. ‘Sorry,
Rox – I’ve got to go.’ He drained his coffee and looked at his watch. ‘Actually, I’m already late. I should’ve been up my ladder ten minutes ago.’

‘Tonight, then – after your round?’ she pushed. ‘I’ll bring a bottle.’

‘I can’t. I’m meeting someone.’

‘Who?’ the motormouth asked. ‘Jennifer?’ But luckily Woody didn’t hear. His mobile was ringing. He darted away to find it.

‘Yep. Sorry, Mrs Henry,’ she heard him apologise. ‘I’m … Yes, I know I’m a bit late. I’ll be with you in a couple of minutes.’

Standing on the doorstep, Roxy heard him switch off the radio and pick up his keys. She tried not to imagine him and Jennifer tonight. What would a date with Woody involve? Candles? Dinner? A long, hot soak in the tub?
Sex?
She shook her head to clear the mental pictures. Damn, this Woody-cold-turkey thing was going to be tougher than she’d thought. She needed to beat a tactical retreat – and fast!

‘Look, Rox, I think it’s happened again,’ Woody said, making his way back to the door. ‘I think we’ve got our wires cro—’

‘Yep, whatever!’ she blurted, reversing down the drive in top gear. ‘Things to see, people to do. Some other time, yeah?’

Woody nodded and watched her leave. And then his phone started ringing again.

To:
Roxy Squires

From:
Celebrity Juice
INTERN

Hiya Roxy,

Thanks for contacting
Celebrity Juice
to ask if you could be a contestant. I’m on work experience this week, but I asked the producer and he said no. But could you send a signed photo for my dad, please? He used to fancy you, years back, and Mum reckons he’s having a crisis.