Could It Be I'm Falling in Love? (2 page)

She thought she heard someone snigger, but ignored it. It was tougher than it looked – smiling seductively whilst simultaneously rolling your hips, thrusting back your shoulders, dangling your arms three inches from your body
and
sucking in your tummy with more force than the Hadron Collider. Roxy ignored the freezing cold (good for the nipples) and worked it for the cameras. This was what she’d come out for. She vamped everything up to eleven and channelled maximum cool sexy fun.

Damn, these glasses are good
, she thought as she strutted past the final photographer. They were so dark she could hardly see the flashes at all!

And then her stilettos scraped to a halt as it hit her.

She couldn’t see any flashes because
there were no flashes
.

She quickly span around. No one was looking. All she could see was a row of backs-of-heads as the photographers kept up their surveillance of the club door. There should have been a throng of activity behind her as everyone rushed to their laptops to edit her photos and wire them out to the picture desks. But the night was oddly silent.

Roxy stared in disbelief. She’d just worked the pavement like a stripper, in a dress short enough for the top shelf!

‘Anyone got any sweeteners?’ one of the photographers asked. ‘The wife reckons I need to lose a few pounds.’

‘Here.’ Someone tossed him a packet of Canderel.

‘Cheers, mate.’

He took one and slowly stirred it into his coffee. And then there was silence. Roxy was incredulous. Had they even
seen
her? Should she go back and do her exit again?

‘Who was the wino in the glasses?’ she suddenly heard someone ask. She quickly scanned the group to see who it was, and whether he was important. He was spotty and looked about sixteen;
an apprentice
, Roxy thought with horror.

‘Her? Oh, just Roxy Squires,’ somebody answered gruffly.

‘Who?’

‘Before your time, mate. She used to be a TV presenter, years back. Not worth firing a few rounds for now, though. She’ll only clog up your hard drive when you’re trying to send through shots of a real celeb.’

The apprentice nodded sagely. He thought for a moment.

‘What a muppet, wearing sunglasses at night!’ he sniggered. ‘Desperate, innit?’

Silently, Roxy slipped off her shades. Suddenly she felt ridiculous in her tiny pink dress. And very, very cold. A gust of wind whipped a discarded burger wrapper against her ankle. What was she
doing?
she thought with a lucidity that sliced through the fug of the mojitos. She was coatless and freezing at two in the morning, on a scuzzy London street in sub-zero temperatures, seventy-four miles and a ninety-quid cab ride away from her bed. She had an overwhelming longing for her PJs. Luckily, she spotted a cab and hastily staggered towards it.

As she threw herself into the car, a roar went up and the steps to the nightclub burst into illuminated life. Photographers darted backwards and forwards and the night was filled with the echo of a woman’s name as they all shouted for her attention. The street lit up with a hundred flashes, casting long, eerie shadows over buildings. A ‘real celeb’ was leaving the club.

On the dark side of the street, Roxy shivered.

It was time for a new strategy.

The water hit the window with a splat.

Up his ladder, Woody hunched against the elements and rubbed his sponge against the pane, pushing soapy suds into each of the corners. The glass squeaked as he cleaned. He pulled his wiper from his tool belt and swept the suds away. And then he saw her.

She was a classic: satin robe and fluffy, high-heeled slippers; robe held fully open. No underwear, just an immaculately trimmed Brazilian and the best breasts money could buy.

His wiper squeaked to a halt.

She eyeballed him defiantly.

Behind the tenuous security of the windowpane, Woody held his breath and concentrated on keeping his eyes locked on hers. But, even through the blur of peripheral vision, he still couldn’t help noticing how her nipples stood aggressively to attention, how her yoga-honed body was sculpture-perfect and how her StairMastered thighs were strong enough to crack walnuts – or any other kind of nut she fancied cracking.

The problem was, she fancied cracking his.

A gust of wind blew a leaf on to Woody’s cheek with a slap. But he couldn’t move. He knew the drill.

Slowly, her eyes fixed on his, she dropped her robe to the floor and rotated, making sure he got the full three-sixty. A framed photo of her husband and kids on the bedside table swam into view over her shoulder.

Woody knew her type; his round was littered with them. She was the kind of woman who saw shopping as a hunter-gatherer contest, and hired legal teams to get her kids into the right school. She probably hadn’t heard the word ‘no’ in a decade.

Her slow pirouette completed, she locked her eyes back on Woody, daring him to take her; defying him not to.

It always made Woody feel weird when clients did this. He’d never been sure of the etiquette. There wasn’t exactly a handbook he could refer to. Was it more polite not to look, or to look? Was it rude to pretend he hadn’t noticed? Was it wrong to give a thumbs-up? After all, with a body like that, she’d gone to a lot of effort.

When he’d first moved to Lavender Heath and started window cleaning, hoping for a quiet, simple life, Barry – whose round he’d taken over – had warned him about flashing clients.

‘Bold as brass they are, and bloody lovely. They spend all their time in the gym and the hairdresser’s, making themselves look perfect, but hubby’s too busy at the office to notice. Bored, they are. Not enough appreciation. There’s not much
good stuff about being a window cleaner: no pension or paid holidays. But at least you get the odd glimpse of muff. Not often, mind; a couple of times a year, if you’re lucky. And if you’re
really
lucky, they’ll follow through on it too. Ask ‘em if they want you to clean on the inside. If they say yes, you’re on for a full sponge and shammy … Mind, I expect you had a lot of that in your old job!’

‘Sorry?’

‘Tits out; pussy on a plate.’

‘Er … I suppose so.’

Barry had nodded sagely. ‘Clever boy. Well, play your cards right and window cleaning’ll keep you in pretty views and extra-marital for life. Although it’ll mostly give you chapped hands.’

Woody figured he’d given her long enough.

He snapped back into action. He beamed his best vintage smile, wiped away the last smudge of soap and slowly backed down the ladder, whistling loudly. He’d take his time cleaning the ground-floor windows. That’d give her the chance to get the message and put her clothes back on before he knocked on the front door (definitely not the back) for his money and a chat. It was best to talk, he’d learnt. Otherwise embarrassment set in. Or resentment.

Far from being flashed at once or twice a year, as Barry had promised, Woody was confronted by open robes and geometrically precise bikini lines every month. He always respectfully declined. Some women got angry when he didn’t bounce off his ladder and on to their Egyptian-cotton sheets.
Some were actually offended – despite the fact that Woody could look down from his ladder on to their top-of-the-range family four-by-fours, or that their nannies were just returning from the school run. But most were just mortified to be turned down. Many couldn’t look him in the eye once they’d wriggled back into their clothes and would immediately set about removing themselves from his round. He couldn’t have that. He wanted to keep his clients, and he wanted to keep them happy. He just didn’t want to keep them
that
happy.

A quick chat was what was needed. And within ten minutes of the advance.

Woody finished off the French doors before stowing away his wiper and knocking on the front door.

She took a full two minutes to answer; fully dressed, arms folded, eyes locked firmly into the middle distance.

‘I’ll get your money,’ she said frostily, turning away from the door. She returned, and thrust a twenty-pound note in his direction. The servant-master relationship restored, Woody thanked her and let her push the door to.

Just before it closed he said, ‘Mrs Barrington-Stanley, I’m deeply flattered, you know … And more than a little bit tempted.’

The door froze, neither open nor closed. She was completely shielded behind it.

Woody spoke into the gap. ‘It’s just that … well, I can’t. I’ve given that kind of thing up.’

There was a pause.

‘What do you mean?’ the door asked uncertainly. ‘Are you saying you’ve given up
sex
?’

‘Yep; gone cold turkey – I’ve given up women. Well, the extra women, I mean.’

‘But you can’t. You’re Woody; you’re
The Woodeniser!
The papers said …’ the door wobbled. ‘Oh my God! You said you’ve given up
women
. I don’t believe it! You’re … Are you telling me you’re
gay?’

Woody rubbed his head. They always seemed to jump to this conclusion.

‘But what about all those girlfriends?’ the door asked. ‘The models? The actresses? Are you telling me they were all … what does my daughter call them …?
Beards?’
There was a gasp. ‘Oh my God!
Was Petra Klitova a beard?’

Woody laughed. ‘They were all real girlfriends, Mrs Barrington-Stanley. I’m not gay.’

The door opened and she moved into the gap, confused.

‘I don’t get it. If you’re not gay, what’s wrong with me? I thought … I mean … Don’t you go for everyone?’

Woody smiled gently. ‘There’s absolutely nothing wrong with you, Mrs Barrington-Stanley. You’re a very beautiful woman. But, well, I’ve got a girlfriend, you see, and she’s lovely. I know what you must have read in the papers, but I’ve reformed. Not that it’s been easy, especially when such temptation’s put in my way.’

She visibly softened and leant against the door frame.

‘Has it been terribly hard for you?’ she asked, concerned. ‘Were you one of those sex addicts?’

Woody tried to hide his smile.

‘Every day’s a test,’ he said solemnly. ‘Do you want me to do the conservatory and outbuildings as well next time?’

Woody scooped up his ladder and crunched down the long gravel driveway, relieved to get away. He caught sight of a dumpy, middle-aged figure in a duffle coat, scuttling along the pavement. She was clutching a packet of biscuits and a half-eaten bag of crisps.

‘Hey, Sue!’ he called out.

She jumped, looked up and reddened. She shoved her crisps into her pocket and quickly ran her hand through her hair.

Woody put down his ladder and jogged over.

‘You still up for tonight?’

Her blush deepened but she nodded uncertainly. Little bits of crisp wobbled in her hair.

‘Don’t worry – you’ll be great!’ he reassured her.

‘It’s just that, I haven’t …
you know
 … for so long.’

‘Hey!’ He put a consoling arm around her. ‘You’ll feel great afterwards. Liberated!’ He gave her shoulders an encouraging squeeze. ‘OK?’

She nodded tightly, looking sick.

‘Eight thirty, then – my place?’ He pulled away and jogged back to his ladder. He heard the rustle of a crisp packet as Sue watched him go.

Was she dead?

Roxy forced one eye to crack open. Daylight surged in, stinging like Chanel N
^°
5. Quickly, she crunched her eye shut, but it was too late; her senses had woken and, right on cue, her head started banging like an East End nightclub.

Roxy pushed her hand out from under the duvet, crabbed it over to her bedside table and groped for her phone. She found it under last night’s knickers. Blearily, she forced out a tweet.

Bleurgh. Am living proof 2much Veuve=nextday inability to use legs. Head banging. Feet broken. Tongue transplanted while sleeping.

She dropped the phone and groaned. Why hadn’t she left herself a pint of water, like any sane person who’d been out on the lash? She wasn’t dehydrated – she was
incinerated
. Even her eyelashes were dry! She felt like she’d slept in the tumble
dryer. Her blood seemed to have evaporated and she was sure the only stuff left in her veins was forty per cent proof.