Could It Be I'm Falling in Love? (20 page)

‘Oh, no! I’m sure Woody would have said.’

‘But she lives in Lavender Heath?’ Roxy wondered if she’d ever seen her. She couldn’t remember seeing any bare-faced supermodel types about. It was the kind of thing she wasn’t likely to miss.

‘She lives with Woody, silly.’

Roxy stared at the carpet a moment, suddenly wishing she
could lie on it and never get up. It was just as well she wasn’t going after Woody. She’d never have stood a chance.

‘Anyway!’ Roxy clapped her hands and tried to sound unaffected. ‘I’d better make tracks … Hot date tonight; need to shave my bits.’ And she hurried to the bedroom door.

‘Oh, Roxy, you dropped something!’

Roxy turned as Sue picked up a thick wadge of paper. It was her latest Visa bill. It must have fallen out of her bag when she was digging for the scarf. But as Sue handed it over, the bill slipped and page after page cascaded on to the floor, covering the carpet in incriminating sheets of black and white.

‘Goodness, Roxy; have you been on a spree?’ Sue exclaimed. She looked at a page and frowned. ‘Are these
all
clothes shops?’

Roxy launched herself at the scattered bill.

‘Just a few outfits,’ she mumbled as she tried to pull the page out of Sue’s hand. ‘For work.’

‘But aren’t these men’s clothes shops?’

‘Presents – for my brother.’ And Roxy ripped the sheet away, stuffing it in her bag with the rest of the bill. ‘Anyway, like I said … Gotta run.’ She scarpered again, but then paused in the doorway. ‘And remember, Sue …
duck egg!’

‘Duck egg,’ Sue obediently nodded.

Roxy grinned emptily, and bolted.

To:
Roxy Squires

From:
The Regency Television Presenters’ Representation Agency

Thank you for your request that we become your official agent for television presenting employment.

However, whilst we are aware of your past body of work, we don’t think there’s anything we could do with you now.

We wish you the best of luck for the future.

To:
Roxy Squires

From:
Cast Of Thousands Representation

Thank you for considering us for your professional representation.

Our books are currently full.

However, we do have a gap in our roster for Eastern European women (under 30). Full training given. If you know any, give them our number.

To:
Roxy Squires

From:
Casting Couch

Hiya. I’m out of the office this week. If you’re emailing about
Honey Cassidy’s Fresh Melons
supermarket tour, give me a shout on the mobile. For info on
Topless Chess
, give the girls in the office a buzz.

‘Urgh!’ Euan screwed up his nose in disgust.

‘What do you mean, “urgh”?’ Simon replied, affronted. He’d spent ages slow-cooking the venison-and-chorizo casserole, and it was melt-in-your-mouth perfection. It hadn’t been easy; he’d had to drive to Biddington for the pimento-stuffed olives and, in the Lavender Heath farmers’-market shop, he’d practically had to wrestle for the last imported sausage. If that woman hadn’t been so worried about her nails, he might never have got it at all.

‘Why can’t we eat normal stuff, like normal people?’ Euan grumbled as he prodded his lunch with disdain.

Simon spiked an olive and did his best not to look hurt. He’d learnt to keep his expressions neutral when close to the twins. Reactions were only used against him as evidence of his own moronity.

‘We
are
normal people, Euan,’ he countered jovially. ‘Everybody eats casserole.’

‘Not pretentious casserole, they don’t.’ Euan turned to his mother. ‘Why can’t we have Turkey Twizzlers?’

‘Ah!’ Simon interrupted knowingly.
‘Nobody
eats Turkey Twizzlers – not since Jamie Oliver.’

‘Everyone
eats Turkey Twizzlers, numbskull. William Jarrett-Smith’s mum gets them imported. Duh – nobody’s
seen
eating Turkey Twizzlers – they get them online. Haven’t you ever heard of the Twizzler black market?’

Simon studied his son in confusion. Was he joking? Was Euan actually engaging in humour? But one glimpse of his son’s curled lip evaporated all hope. Suddenly Simon felt mortified. How come he didn’t know about the Twizzler black market? Was there a whole sub-section of black market food he didn’t know about? An alliance of Lavender Heath mums secretly feeding their little darlings Angel Delight and Brain’s faggots?

‘So,’ chirped Linda, in an attempt to lift the mood. ‘It’s your dad’s last night in panto.’

‘Thank Christ,’ muttered Scarlet.

‘Why do you say that?’ Simon quizzed, before considering the wisdom of asking. In one sense, he agreed with his daughter – he
did
thank Christ it was the last night he had to glue on his eyebrows and slip into his spit-laden beard. This year’s panto had run unseasonably, depressingly long (it was 2
^nd
February, for heaven’s sake!). But on the other hand, the twins were an empathy-free zone, and any support from them should be treated as suspicious.

Scarlet shrugged.

‘Well, it’s embarrassing, isn’t it?’

Again, Simon had to agree. Treading the boards of a second-rate theatre
was
embarrassing. He should be strutting the stages
of the West End! He looked at his daughter in wonder. He’d never realised he had an ally.

‘Yeah, everyone else’s dad’s a CEO,’ she continued lethally. ‘But
ours
wears tights for a living. And that’s when he’s actually working – the rest of the year he’s a dole-ite.’

‘Scarlet!’ Linda scolded angrily as Simon recoiled from his daughter’s betrayal. ‘Your father is a highly respected actor! And, anyway, what’s so wrong with pantomime? You used to love it when you were a little girl.’ She lifted a hand to silence Scarlet’s counter-argument.
‘Plus
you know full well that it’s perfectly normal for an actor to have downtime between jobs. You should be pleased your father’s so choosy. If he took everything he was offered, he wouldn’t be able to drive you to all your lovely activities.’

But Scarlet was unimpressed. ‘Anyway, I’m glad the panto’s over.’ She eyeballed her father witheringly. ‘Give those zits time to recover.’

Simon’s fork fell on his plate with a clatter.

‘Zits! What zits?’ His fingers searched his cheeks for their Braille.

‘Duh! The zits covering your whole, entire face! You’re like the
before
bit in a Clearasil ad. It’s putting me off my lunch.’ And underlining her point, Scarlet put down her knife and fork and pushed her casserole away.

‘It’s the make-up! Stage make-up’s so horribly thick—’

‘We
all
wear make-up, Dad. Doesn’t mean we go around with a plague face.’

‘Scarlet!’
Linda scolded her again.

‘What? I’m only saying!’

A few minutes later and, mercifully, Linda granted the twins liberty from the dinner table. Within seconds, they’d scarpered back to their iPads and Xboxes, their bedroom doors articulately slamming behind them. A blissful silence swept into the kitchen, and then Simon crumpled with the release of the superhuman effort it took to remain upbeat in front of his kids.

‘She doesn’t mean to be vile,’ Linda consoled him. ‘It’s just her crap DNA.’

‘But, she’s right, isn’t she?’ Simon wallowed. ‘Panto
is
embarrassing.
I’m
embarrassing. Kids want to respect their dads. Nobody wants one who’s just meals and wheels.’

‘Oi! We
both
agreed you should take your time and hang out for the quality projects. And whilst that’s happening, it’s great that you can pick the kids up from school and give them a home-cooked meal. One day they’ll thank you for it!’

‘One day they’ll hang me for it,’ he mumbled darkly.

‘Hey!’ Linda came over to his side of the table and gave him a friendly poke. ‘You’re officially hanging up your eyebrows for another year. I thought you’d be pleased.’

‘I
am
pleased.’

‘So why the long face?’ She pulled Scarlet’s chair up beside him and gave him a gentle, teasing kiss.

Simon sighed and relented. He never liked to keep things from Linda. Actually, he found it impossible. She had a way of cuddling things out of him.

‘It’s the group,’ he admitted heavily.

‘What, your famous-friends group?’

‘My formerly-famous-friends group,’ he corrected bleakly. ‘Yeah, well, it looks like one of us isn’t going to be so formerly famous.’

Linda peered at him quizzically. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Austin’s joining,’ he declared, depressed.

‘Austin who?’

He tutted. ‘Austin Jones!’

Linda laughed. ‘Austin Jones is joining your support group? What?
The
Austin Jones?’

‘It’s not a support group,’ insisted Simon. ‘We’re a collection of friends who meet to share our experiences. And yes,
the
bloody Austin Jones!’

‘Friends? You can’t stand half of them!’

‘That’s not true.’

His wife raised an eyebrow. ‘The only one you like is Roxy,’ she teased, nudging him fondly before cuddling back up. ‘Well, well, well.
The
Austin Jones, eh?’

‘I don’t know why you find it so funny.’

‘I don’t, honey. It’s just, the most successful rom-com actor in the world is joining your group, and you think it’s
bad
news.’

‘It
is
bad news.’

‘Yeah? On what planet?’

Simon struggled to think of a reply. He knew he was being childish, but he couldn’t help it.

‘You daft sod!’ Linda fondly ruffled his hair. ‘This is a brilliant opportunity, silly. Think about it …
You
love rom-coms
–
he
knows rom-coms inside out.
You
want to get into them –
he
wants to get out. What better opportunity for my handsome, talented, criminally under-cast husband to pick Austin Jones’ brain for some tips? He can give you all the inside info. He might even help you on your way. Simon, this is great news! This could be the opportunity you’ve been looking for!’

Simon knew it made sense, but his bad mood had dug in too deep.

‘He’s thirty-seven!’ he protested bleakly.

‘So …?’

‘“So”?’ Did he really need to spell it out? His brilliant wife could defend watertight accusations on the most oblique and complicated loophole. How could she not see
this
glaring injustice? ‘So, he’s thirty-seven and has done fourteen movies that have grossed hundreds of millions of dollars around the world. I’m thirty-nine, have done precisely
no
movies and spend six months a year living off the joint account.’

Linda scooched a little closer. ‘It’s just the luck of the draw, sweetheart. Austin isn’t more talented – he’s luckier. He just happened to be in the right place at the right time.’

‘Yeah, and now he’s in his multi-million-pound mansion and I’m in panto!’

‘Bloody Barrington.’ Linda suddenly sat straight. ‘You
have
fired him, haven’t you?’

‘Everyone loves him, Lind,’ Simon whined extra loudly, to divert his wife from his lack of answer. ‘The whole world loves Austin Jones! Everyone thinks I’m a murderous, kiddy-fiddling pervert … if they even think of me at all.’

‘Now, you listen to me, Simon Drennan.’ Linda fixed him with a no-nonsense stare. ‘You are a great actor – too great! That’s why everyone still thinks you’re Sick Nick – because you were so brilliant at pretending to be him. Now that’s what
I
call talent.’

Simon grunted, determined to resist her logic. He stared at the twins’ discarded casserole to keep himself feeling downbeat.

‘Come on, cheer up.’ Linda slapped his back and stood up. ‘I’m sure you and Austin’ll be best mates within the week. Who knows? Maybe he’ll introduce you to some of his contacts. Hey, get him to give you his agent’s details. That’ll wipe the smirk off Barrington’s smug little face.’ And she started clearing the plates. Forlornly, Simon watched as she loaded the dishwasher.

‘The
Austin Jones, eh?’ She grinned as she stacked dirty dinner plates. Trapped in his gloom, Simon didn’t see the teasing look she threw in his direction.

To:
Roxy Squires

From:
Holly Childs

Hi Roxy,

Thanks very much for your message(s). I don’t often go out in the evenings, but yes, OK … I suppose a drink might be nice!

Shall we meet in the Dog and Duck at 7.30?

x