Could It Be I'm Falling in Love? (16 page)

Terence opened his front door to an enormous parcel. And Roxy Squires.

‘What the …?’

Even to his own ears he sounded alarmed. He’d been expecting the postman. He hadn’t been expecting …
well
 … he wasn’t sure how to describe Roxy’s appearance. He hadn’t been so close to this much exposed flesh since his wife left. Roxy’s legs were bare right the way up to … Suddenly self-conscious in his slippers, he brushed the bump of his stomach to dislodge the toast crumbs.

‘Morning, Tezza.’ Roxy propped up her sunglasses and grinned over the top of the cardboard box. ‘I’ve been having a clear-out and thought I’d bring you some stuff.’ She put down the box and straightened up.

‘Stuff?’ Terence echoed tightly. He didn’t know where to look. Not at Roxy’s legs, obviously. But now the box was on the floor, a vast expanse of cleavage had revealed itself too. Roxy’s top was so low-cut, he could practically see her breakfast. Didn’t she know about today’s stiff north-easterlies and
fifteen-per-cent chance of sleet? Maybe she was still drunk from last night – he’d heard she was free and easy with the bottle. He averted his eyes altogether and focused instead on the frost on his cloud-shaped bush.

‘Yeah, just some clothes an old boyfriend left lying around,’ Roxy continued. ‘Complete bloody disaster, he was. Anyway, I was just about to sling them when I thought,
hang about
– you’re roughly the same build – maybe some of them would be good for you.’

Terence forgot about the topiary.

‘But I don’t need clothes – I’ve got plenty.’

‘Yeah, but I thought you might want newer ones.’

‘Newer ones?’ he was confused. Why on earth would he want
newer
clothes? None of his outfits had holes in and most of his trousers still had their creases. Besides, if he wanted new clothes he could buy them himself. ‘Now, look here, young lady …’ he waggled his finger. ‘I don’t like what you’re implying. I don’t need your charity.’

‘It’s not charity,’ Roxy snorted. ‘No, it’s a … a
mutually beneficial arrangement
. I get a corner of my wardrobe back, and you get to – you know – rebrand.’

Terence opened his mouth to speak, but couldn’t think of a single thing to say. He closed it again with a snap.

‘Look, Terry – I’ll be blunt. The slacks-and-knitwear look really isn’t working for you. I know you’re off duty nowadays, but that’s no reason to just give up.’

‘It’s just an old cardigan I wear around the house … And what do you mean, “just give up”?’

‘But Tezza, it’s not
just
the cardigan … It’s the whole Fusty Uncle look you’re rocking.’

‘Fusty
what?’

‘You look like you’ve got a rod up your arse.’

‘Now just a minute—’

‘Look, Tezza – if you want to get back on the telly, you need to sharpen up. Even weathermen are fashion-forward these days. You can’t just rock up at meetings with TV execs looking like that; you’re not doing yourself justice. You’re a very attractive man!’

Terence’s mouth fell open again. Had Roxy Squires just called him
attractive?
Did this mouthy, seasonally-inappropriate young woman actually find him appealing? Stranger things had happened, he supposed. She must have been a fan of his forecasts. It was amazing what television did to a woman’s libido. And he
had
caught her staring at him at the last meeting. He straightened up and sucked in his tummy.

‘Come of it, Terry. You’re as old as my dad.’

‘I didn’t think—’ His belly popped back out.

‘Yeah, course you didn’t.’ She laughed. And then she lowered her voice and leant in. ‘Anyway, we both know I’m not the one you’ve got your eye on.’

‘You’re not?’ Terry spluttered, before realising how wrong that had sounded.

‘I’ve seen the way you look at her.’ Roxy winked.

‘You have?’

‘’Course.’

Terry’s mouth went slack yet again. Had he been that
obvious? He was mortified! But then it struck him: the way he’d looked at
whom?
He wasn’t aware he’d been looking
that
way at anyone. Was Roxy seeing something he wasn’t?

‘Look, Terry. Do us
both
a favour, eh?’ Roxy continued. ‘Take a look through the box and try some bits on. If you don’t like any of it, fine – give it to the charity shop. But there’s some really great clobber in here, and I think a little ramble away from the brown pallet might help
both
your causes. A new image will take ten years off you.’

‘Are you trying to say I look old?’

‘No! Well – yes. But it’s nothing a few new shirts won’t fix.’

Roxy turned to go, but then suddenly turned back.

‘Ooo, I nearly forgot. Can you sing?’

‘Sing?’

‘Yeah – songs and stuff.’

And this time Terry’s mouth fell open and stayed open.

The ornate iron gates slid open with a muted electric hum.

‘All right, fellas?’

‘Hiya, Woody.’

‘Shift up a bit, would you? Need to get my ladders through.’

The photographers shuffled aside to give Woody passage through the gates. As he passed, someone fired off a shot. He grimaced. The offending photographer shrugged.

‘Just getting something in the bank in case the local rag runs a knobbly knees competition. Knees like that, you’re bound to win.’

‘And to think I let you sleep in my penthouse when your hotel room fell through in Rome,’ Woody replied sternly. ‘I should’ve left you out in the rain.’

‘Yeah, well, if you’d been a real host, you’d have shared that tasty Italian model you were partying with in the next room.’ The photographer turned to the rest of his mob. ‘No manners, these floppy-haired pop tarts.’

‘Oi!’ Woody set down his ladder and coolly eyeballed the
snapper. ‘Less of the floppy!’ And then the two men burst into laughter. ‘All right, Ken? Good to see you, mate.’

Woody and the photographer man-hugged.

‘You too, you old bastard.’ Ken rubbed the top of Woody’s head. ‘Hey, you doing Austin Jones’ windows?’

‘Yep.’

Ken frowned. ‘Isn’t that a bit weird?’

‘Nope.’ Woody tried to move on.

‘Well, if you’re heading down there, any chance of a—?’

‘You had more chance with the Italian model.’

Ken grunted and played up to the other photographers again. ‘She couldn’t keep her eyes off me, that one. Fancied my bloody arse off. She only went with Woody as a warm-up.’

Woody chuckled and strode past the photographers with a backwards wave.

‘Come on,’ someone tried their luck. ‘Just let one of us sneak up with you …’

‘Or at least let us stick a digital in your bucket.’

‘See you later, lads!’ Woody called over his shoulder.

The gates slid closed behind him. Woody adjusted his hold on the ladder and crunched up the long, winding drive to Austin Jones’ multi-million-pound pad.

The thought came as he passed a huge bank of hydrangeas. He didn’t want to do this. Not the windows (although Austin’s place was so vast it took two days to get them all clean). No, it was the windows’ owner that was the problem. And until now the windows’ owner had always been absent.

Woody wasn’t surprised the group wanted to recruit Austin.
Actually, it was surprising nobody had suggested him before, even though he’d previously spent more time in the Hollywood Hills than Lavender Heath. And technically there’d always been the small point of him still
having
a career, of course. But even allowing for his recent retirement, Austin Jones was definitely one of the group’s crappier ideas. They had no idea what they were letting themselves in for. They all thought Austin Jones was the same Austin Jones they saw on the big screen. They hadn’t a clue about the non-fictionalised, non-airbrushed, non-PR’d Austin.

Woody negotiated his ladder around the final bend in the drive, past the tennis court and the moat-like infinity pool, and into view of the house. As he took in its manicured lawns, immaculate orangery and hushed, moneyed air, Woody was struck by a sudden feeling. He hadn’t had it for so long he’d almost forgotten what it felt like. But here it was again – the queasy lurch of unease.

When Woody walked away from the music business, he’d vowed to never ignore his instincts again. He’d wasted
years
agreeing to things he shouldn’t have agreed to, muting the voice that nagged in the back of his head. Each thing by itself was tiny but, month by month, year by year, the minuscule concessions to his time and sanity ate rivets into his soul. Naturally polite and easy going, he felt too up himself to look the pop-mag journo in the eye and refuse to pose for her daft photo shoot, or to tell his manager he’d rather
not
record that cover he hated or give up the week’s only free hour to chat to a DJ about his favourite trainers/colour/vest. So what if he
had to croon his way through that cover version for every TV show on the planet? It wasn’t like he was working down a coal mine. Who was he to say no to requests? So he kept saying yes, and rewarded himself with a never-ending whirl of VIP enclosures and backstage parties. And women –
lots and lots of women
. After all, his conscience couldn’t keep him awake at night if the latest model/actress/cocktail waitress was keeping him awake instead.

But that inner voice wouldn’t stop nagging. Did he really need to get up at 4.30am for hair and make-up? A quick splash of water and a comb would do for Joe Bloggs. And what did it matter if the lighting on his latest video was that fraction too blue? Was it really worth the money to reshoot? When was he going to get a real job? Was it
right
that his brain was filled up with ridiculous stuff, like knowing that eight and a half minutes on a sunbed gave him the most natural tan for TV, that housewives preferred minor keys and that the best way to make teenagers swoon was a six-second gaze into camera three before dropping his eyes in Mills-and-Boon regret?

Instincts, Woody discovered, were awkward buggers; they always won in the end. And when his finally cut through the recording sessions, promotional tours, meet-and-greets, roadshows, video shoots, personal appearances, record signings and parties,
parties, PARTIES
, Woody suddenly stopped dead. He was on the set of a TV show, his band poised behind him – everyone waiting for the cue that they were about to go live. Beneath the MAC foundation, Woody’s face went ashen and
his eyes went dead. That was it – enough – career over. Without thinking of anything, he walked out of the studio, and home.

Of course, the papers called it a breakdown, but Woody knew better. Something in his brain had fused – a connection made; a spark created – a switch had flicked itself on. It may have
looked
like he was slobbing on his sofa – his stubble growing longer, sleeping in his clothes … but beneath the disappearing highlights, fading tan and greying white vest, things were happening. Like Dr Who, Woody was regenerating.

Progress was initially slow. But he eventually re-emerged, blinking at the sun. The world had been busy without him. Homework completed, chores tackled, love affairs started, babies born, the rat race run … The sleeping pop star had long been forgotten.

Rejoining the world was the first half of his recovery; rejoining the world of work was the next. What Woody needed, his instincts told him, was good, honest toil. And this time Woody didn’t ignore them. Scrubbing windows at the top of a ladder – the breeze blowing around his ankles, the sun beating on his head, his modest, genuinely-earned wages nestling in his pocket – gave him something all his quickly-won pop-star riches had never been able to buy: self-respect. He may have hit adulthood years beforehand, but it was only now Woody felt he was a man.

Woody knew instincts were ignored at your peril. So why, he wondered as he surveyed Austin’s beautiful Georgian mansion, was he here, ignoring his? He should have said no the moment Austin was mentioned. He wanted to help the
group, not implode them. Any sane person wouldn’t go within a mile of this Jones.

But what Woody’s instincts hadn’t factored in was the unfactorable presence of Roxy Squires. She’d looked at him in that way of hers, like she was setting him a challenge and he’d better measure up. It was the kind of look she used to be famous for, the unpredictable, fun-loving ladette, as likely to lure you into a never-ending duel of tequila shots as a tussle between the sheets. Woody knew she was winding him up. She, at least, must have encountered enough stars to guess what Austin was
really
like. And he couldn’t believe she didn’t know their history.