Could It Be I'm Falling in Love? (19 page)

Luckily, Simon interrupted.

‘For Christ’s sake, everyone – she’s embarrassing! She’s a gold-digging car wreck in heels! She’s going to have to go before Austin joins. He’ll think we’re a bunch of idiots!’

‘Austin?’ On the other side of the room, Chelle perked up. ‘Austin who?’

The group froze, eyeing each other in panic.

‘No one …’ Simon called out with over-baked innocence. ‘Austin no one.’

‘Oh. My. God.’ Chelle flicked off Holly’s arm-rubbing hand in excitement. ‘You mean Austin Jones, don’tcha?’

Simon opened his mouth and then closed it, unable to improvise a quick enough lie.

‘Austin Jones, the
movie star!’
Chelle giggled. Her blankness was suddenly superanimated. ‘Woody – why didn’tcha tell me? Austin’s single, right? Wow,
Austin Jones
 … He’d do perfect! Dwayne’ll freak! Is he coming tonight? Get us another wine, Hol, would ya?’

Roxy looked at the group. Everyone’s face was registering dread. But that was it – matter settled. Whether they liked it or not, Chelle was joining the group.

To:
Roxy Squires

From:
Never Mind The Buzzcocks
production office

Hello Roxy Squires,

Thanks for getting in touch to suggest yourself as a guest panellist for
Never Mind The Buzzcocks
.

Although we don’t think you’re right as a celebrity panellist, we’re always looking for people for the ‘where are they now’ line-up. We’re currently padding out the extras for Whigfield. If you fancy being a red herring, give us a call …

‘Shouldn’t you be filming today?’

Roxy frowned and concentrated on applying base coat to Sue’s nails.

‘Day off,’ she muttered darkly. She’d been doing her best to forget the morning’s catastrophic round of phone calls. Was it her imagination, or were the people working in telly getting ruder? A few years ago, if she phoned to suggest herself as the presenter for a programme or pitch an idea for a banging new show, people at least listened before they said no. Now they practically hung up before they’d answered.

‘All submissions in writing,’ one woman (who barely sounded out of her teens) had barked before Roxy’s motormouth had even cranked into gear. ‘And only via an agent.’

‘I don’t have an agent.’

‘Can’t get one?’

‘I choose to captain my own ship,’ Roxy had retorted with as much dignity as she could muster. ‘Girl power,’ she added limply.

‘Whatever,’ the teenager sighed. ‘Look, if you want my advice …’

Roxy wasn’t sure that she did.

‘… I’d give it a rest. You call us every single week and the answer’s always, totally, no. Forget about telly; you’re done. Aren’t they desperate for nurses?’

Over her years of working in TV, Roxy had learnt to develop a thick skin. And a small part of her – the plain-speaking part – admired the child’s bluntness. But the rest of her (the I’ve-interviewed-more-bands-than-you-could-shake-your-rattle-at bit) wanted to give the jumped-up message-taker a tongue lashing so brutal that it knocked her into the early part of next week. She drew herself up, took a deep breath and was about to get started when she heard a click. The teen had hung up. Furious, Roxy had abandoned the pitches she’d planned for the morning and was now sitting in Sue’s kitchen, chain-drinking tea and deflecting a non-stop bombardment of Hobnobs.

‘Are you
sure
we should be going for lilac?’ Sue eyed the bottle of purple nail varnish with trepidation.

‘Mega sure,’ Roxy dismissed. ‘French is for WAGs; nude is for bores. Red’s great, but you need to wear it with attitude. Lilac’s leftfield and funky – it’s perfect for you.’

Sue nodded uncertainly.

‘Well, it’s really nice of you to spend your day off doing this,’ she ventured gamely as Roxy blew across her base coat to check it was dry. ‘I can’t remember the last time I had a manicure.’

‘Well, you should,’ Roxy upbraided her. ‘Neglect your nails and the world will neglect you. Manicures are a vital part of your wardrobe!’

Sue looked blank. Roxy sighed and tried another tack.

‘Think of your nails like a cardie …
or knickers
. You wouldn’t leave the house without undercrackers, would you? Nor should you leave without polish.’

‘Wearing nail varnish is as important as wearing pants?’ Sue’s eyes goggled.

Roxy thought for a moment.

‘No, you’re right,’ she conceded. ‘Some outfits are rubbish with pants.’

Sue gasped. ‘You sometimes go out
without pants?’

‘Course! The paps get a shot of an arse-muncher, and you’ll be in all the wrong kinds of spreads.’

Sue blanched. ‘I don’t go out much, anyway,’ she said, relieved.

‘No? Why not?’

‘Oh, I …’ she tailed off. She did her best to look offhand, but there was an obvious sadness.

‘Why don’t you come out with me?’ Roxy offered impulsively.

Sue pulled her hand away. It fluttered nervously, nails half painted, at her chest. ‘Oh, I couldn’t possibly go clubbing.’

‘Not clubbing, just a drink.’

Sue looked doubtful. ‘I don’t know …’

‘Yes, why not?’ Roxy warmed to her theme. Why shouldn’t she go drinking with Sue? Just because they had zero in
common didn’t mean they couldn’t have a laugh. Besides, she was developing a soft spot for Sue. OK, she was practically as old as her mum, but Roxy wanted to make her less sad. As she watched Sue struggle to invent an excuse, she was struck by a terrible thought. How long had it been since Sue had got hammered. Months? Years?
Decades?

‘When d’you last have a night out, Sue?’ she asked bluntly.

‘Last week. With you.’

‘Not a meeting. I mean a proper night out – somewhere that doesn’t have a kettle.’

‘Oh, gosh. Um …’ Sue’s cheeks reddened.

‘Right, that settles it – I insist!’ Roxy declared. ‘Nothing major; just you, me and a bottle of the hard stuff down the Dog and Duck.’ She pretended not to notice the fear flooding Sue’s face.

‘But I haven’t got anything to wear,’ Sue protested feebly.

‘Oh, I doubt that!’ Roxy screwed the lid on the bottle of varnish and blew across Sue’s new purple nails. ‘Come on; lead the way!’

‘To the pub?’ Sue asked in alarm.

‘To your bedroom! I’m gonna check out your clobber – blow the cobwebs off your party outfits. I bet you’ve got dozens back there!’

But she was wrong.

‘Nice!’ admired Roxy as she flung open the doors to Sue’s wardrobe and surveyed the clothes inside. ‘Colour-coded wardrobes – I’m liking your style.’ She peered around the bedroom. ‘So, where are the other wardrobes?’

‘What other wardrobes?’ Sue’s eyes wandered her own bedroom, confused.

‘Very funny.’ Roxy was beginning to see a new side to Sue – she’d never had her down as a joker. ‘The wardrobes with the colours in them.’

Sue pinkened again. ‘There are no other wardrobes.’

Roxy’s mouth fell open. ‘But all your clothes are black!’

She stared into Sue’s wardrobe, agog. It was a cavernous black hole – a dark, deep mass of fabric midnight. It looked like the kind of wardrobe you could walk into and keep walking, and eventually pop out in Narnia.

‘Are you telling me you don’t own a
single item of colour?’

Roxy couldn’t make sense of such a thing. Her own wardrobe was a riot: a demented mash-up of Eurovision and Barbie. Tentatively, she reached a hand into Sue’s clothes and recoiled. Everything was made from jersey – floppy, wide-skirted and elasticated at the waist. There was barely a zip, seam or button to be seen.

‘Christ, Sue! What’s going on?’

Sue fumbled awkwardly. ‘It’s just that black’s so forgiving. I grow out of things so fast.’

‘Bloody hell! I’m all for a nice, black silhouette, but have we just walked into the wrong house? These aren’t dresses – they’re cassocks! And there’s nothing slimming about leisure-goth.’

But then Roxy caught a glimpse of Sue’s face. She could have kicked herself. Sue was staring at the carpet, a tart’s fart away from tears. The Squires motormouth had struck again.

Chastened, Roxy flopped down on the bed next to her friend. The two women sat in silence, the inky wardrobe yawning before them.

‘Black’s cool,’ Roxy offered after a moment. ‘Some of my best underwear’s black.’

Sue tried to raise a watery smile. A thoughtful silence resumed.

‘You know what I’d love to see you in,’ Roxy burst out optimistically. Sue looked at her with big, sad eyes – like Bambi, if he’d just been run over – and Roxy was struck with the momentousness of the task in hand.
This was the Gok moment
, she realised with a tremble. This was way bigger than wardrobes. This wasn’t about weaning Sue off her jersey crack – this was about revamping the fabric of Sue, the woman! Sue needed making over from the inside out.

‘Duck egg,’ Roxy declared authoritatively. ‘You’d look mint in a bit of duck egg.’

‘Really?’ Sue looked dubious and nervous at the same time.

‘Deffo! It’ll soften you up, let that baby-smooth skin of yours glow.’

Instinctively, Sue’s hand crept up to her face to feel its softness.

‘You see, black’s
good,’
Roxy continued carefully. ‘But it would be doubly good to say hi to a few other colours too. Y’know, to
complement
the black.’

‘Oh, I’m not sure …’ Sue looked terrified at the prospect of Pantones.

‘Nothing too bright. Just a few soft shades … Some greys
and creams. And mushroom; mushroom’s very flattering for …’ Roxy stopped before the motormouth could blurt
the more mature lady
. ‘… Your skin tone,’ she finished with relief. And she beamed at Sue encouragingly.

There was a moment of silence whilst duck egg hung in the balance.

‘Oooo, hang about!’ Roxy dashed out of the bedroom, before rocketing back with her bag. She plonked it on the bed and rummaged its contents. ‘In fact …’ she muttered, as various oddities spilled out the sides, ‘I’ve got just the thing … Ta-dah!’ And she triumphantly waved a pewter cloth.

‘What is it?’

‘It’s a scarf, Sue – a scarf!’

Sue regarded it nervously. Pewter was obviously dangerous new territory.

‘Look, I’m not suggesting you swan about in a dreamcoat,’ Roxy told her. ‘All I’m saying is, how about a few
mildly
colourful accessories? I mean, this isn’t a proper colour at all; it’s a demi-colour.’

Sue eyed the scarf as though it were teethed and hungry. ‘OK,’ she finally agreed.

It was all the encouragement Roxy needed. In a blink she hoisted Sue to her feet and arranged the scarf around her neck. The effect was immediate. Sue’s complexion brightened and her eyes sparkled. Roxy span her around so she could see her reflection in the mirror.

‘See?’ Roxy prompted, barely able to hide her jubilation. ‘A little bit of
almost
colour goes a very long way.’

Sue’s breath quickened. She looked at herself. And then Roxy saw it – a hint of marvel in Sue’s eyes.

‘Is it my imagination …’ Sue ventured hesitantly, ‘… or does it make me look a bit …’

‘Younger? Trendier?’ she offered.

‘…
thinner?’

Roxy smiled. ‘Thinner – yes! Definitely thinner.’

And Sue turned and gave a radiant smile that suddenly wiped twenty years from her face and gave Roxy a glimpse of what she must have looked like when she was Suzi.

‘Keep it,’ Roxy told her, despite the fact that the scarf was Marc Jacobs and her favourite.

‘I couldn’t …’

‘Really – it never suited me, anyway. Have it!’

‘Well… if you’re sure.’ Sue grinned, and put her hand up to touch the scarf’s folds. Roxy noticed her hand fluttered less than before. And then she clocked Sue admiring her lilac nails against the pewter.

Bingo
, Roxy thought proudly. But then her smile faded. ‘Sue?’ she asked quickly, before better judgement could get in the way. ‘What’s Jennifer like?’

‘Like?’ Sue was still entranced by her new reflection. ‘Well, I expect she’s lovely.’

‘You’ve not met her?’

‘No.’

‘But you said she was beautiful,’ Roxy protested.
‘And
dedicated to her job.’

‘Well, she
is
beautiful,’ Sue automatically insisted. ‘Have you still not seen the photos?’

Roxy grunted. She’d not actually managed to set foot in Woody’s house since the night of their date-that-never-was. Not that it mattered now, anyway. She was officially No Longer Interested In Woody. So why did hearing that Jennifer was beautiful hurt?

‘And I don’t think she wears a drop of make-up,’ Sue added.

The elastic snapped in Roxy’s jaw.
What kind of woman didn’t wear make-up?
She couldn’t imagine a life without MAC. She made herself up just to make toast. So, unless Woody was going out with a battleaxe (unlikely), Jennifer had to be beyond mortally stunning.

‘And
of course
she’s dedicated to her job.’ Sue patted her scarf, unaware of the meltdown taking place on her bed. ‘Otherwise she’d come to our meetings.’

Roxy choked. ‘Are you saying she used to be famous?’ She suddenly remembered all the beautiful women Woody used to be linked to: Imogen Tattinger … Jessica Jones …
Petra Klitova
.