Could It Be I'm Falling in Love? (21 page)

‘Oh!’ Roxy’s face fell. ‘You brought Chelle.’

‘You don’t mind, do you?’ Holly asked sweetly, as she joined Roxy at the corner table and sat down. She was wearing a peach blouse and cardie. ‘She’s having a bad day.’

Roxy looked over to the bar. Chelle didn’t look like she was having a bad day. She was wearing six-inch heels, a silver mini and more make-up than a synchronised swimmer.

‘You know me,’ she mumbled. ‘Two’s a chat; three’s a party.’ She took a swig of her beer and tried not to feel resentful as a ruddy-faced Dave asked Chelle for her order. Dave didn’t blush when
she
ordered drinks – not unless you counted that time she asked for a Slippery Nipple. But Chelle was unaware of Dave’s hormones, tapping away on her iPhone and ceaselessly rearranging her hair.

‘Does she realise she’s in the Dog and Duck and there’s no pole?’ Roxy muttered.

‘Bottle of champers, girlies?’ Chelle hollered over.

‘Ooo, lovely!’ Holly cooed excitedly.

‘What’s wrong with her then?’ Roxy asked as Chelle went
into slo-mo looking for her purse. ‘Not got her acrylics into any millionaires this week?’

‘Roxy!’

‘What? It’s what she wants – she said so herself!’

‘If you must know,’ Holly corrected, ‘she’s a bit blue. She just needs a girly chat to get things off her chest.’

‘Epic,’ replied Roxy dryly, as she eyed Chelle’s plastic boobs. She’d wanted a natter with Holly; she had important comeback ideas to discuss. But now Chelle would be turning the night into a spotlit weep-fest.

‘Bloody ‘ell, that took yonks!’ Chelle arrived at the table with bubbly, Dave and a tray of glasses in her wake. ‘I can’t believe this place don’t take AmEx. What’re we doin’ ‘ere, anyway? I thought we was goin’ up town?’

Dave scuttled back to the safety of the bar.

‘To London?’ Holly froze.

‘Yeah; up West, down East, round Mayfair … It’s all farmers and coffin dodgers round ‘ere. We should be struttin’ our stuff somewhere glamorous!’

‘I don’t really think …’ Holly adjusted her cardie.

‘Oh, come on, Hol! Live a bit, would’ya?’

‘But you’ve just bought champagne.’

‘We can drink it in the taxi!’

Holly groped for a different excuse. ‘But aren’t they all members’ bars in London?’

‘So?’

‘So – Roxy and I aren’t members!’

Roxy was about to protest. She didn’t want to be trumped
in the membership-of-cool-bars stakes. Besides, membership was for wimps. There wasn’t a velvet rope in the world she couldn’t get past if she put her mind to it and her slap on. But Chelle didn’t give her time to butt in.

‘Don’t be stupid!’ she snorted. ‘You’re with me, I’m a member everywhere!’

‘Really? Gosh, that sounds expensive.’

‘I don’t pay! Nah, I get sent membership cards for free. Or, at least, Dwayne does.’ Suddenly Chelle stopped and looked sad.

‘Yes, well, I don’t really fancy London,’ Holly said quickly. ‘Too much hassle, isn’t it, Roxy?’

Roxy decided to play along. If she was going to be forced into a night with Chelle, it had to be quick. There was no way she was prolonging it by clubbing.

‘Haven’t you heard?’ she declared archly. ‘London’s over! Locals are where it’s at now.’

‘Really?’ Chelle instantly brightened. ‘Wicked!’

For all her talk of clubbing, Chelle – it turned out – was a lightweight. After just thirty minutes of drinking, she’d gone distinctly last-season green.

‘Shall I take you out for some air?’ Holly rubbed her arm in concern.

Chelle shook her head and gripped her seat. She concentrated very hard on just breathing.

Roxy seized her chance. ‘So, Hol, we need to talk about something.’

‘We do?’

‘You!’

But Holly was distracted by Chelle.

‘Why d’you give it up, Hol?’

‘Give what up?’

‘The books, the writing, the fame!’

Now
she had her attention.

‘Oh, I was never really famous.’ Holly’s forehead rumpled into a frown.

‘Don’t be daft, you were mega successful!’

‘Well, a bit. But success and fame are two different things. I wasn’t a star – I was at school.’

‘But Holly, your book was made into a film! And not just any film – a bloody big, bank-busting blockbuster!’

Holly looked at her obtusely. ‘I don’t get your point.’

‘My point is, you could have been J. K. Rowling! Or …’ Roxy tried to think of some other authors. ‘Enid Blyton.’

‘It was just a bit of fun,’ said Holly. ‘And then I gave it up.’

‘But I don’t get it.’ Roxy slapped the table in exasperation. ‘If it was fun, why stop?’

Holly shrugged. ‘My parents thought education was important.’

‘My parents thought Cliff was important.’

‘They wanted me to study science.’

‘So? Nobody does what their parents tell them.’

‘I did,’ Holly said simply. ‘They said being high profile was vulgar.’

‘Being high profile is ace!’

Holly pulled a face. ‘I don’t think I would have liked it. I’m not really one for big parties. My mum said I wasn’t the type.’

‘You were fifteen. You could have
become
the type!’

For a moment Holly looked lost. ‘I don’t know. I already had lots of money. And making up stories just seemed a bit silly. Besides, I had lots of ideas when I was younger. But I don’t any more.’

‘That’s because you don’t
do
anything!’ Roxy cried. ‘If you stepped a few feet out of Lavender Heath, you’d find tons of juicy stuff to write about.’

‘I’m not su—’

‘Hol, you’ve
got
to start writing again!’

‘Oh, I don’t—’

‘If
you
don’t have stories,
use mine
. I’ve been there, done that – with knobs on. I’m a walking one-woman bonkbuster!’

‘I miss Dwayne!’ Chelle suddenly wailed.

Holly’s attention instantly vanished. She pulled Chelle into a hug.

‘Awww, you poor thing! Oh, let’s see if I’ve got a tissue for your nose.’

Irritated, Roxy topped up her glass. If she couldn’t get what she wanted from Holly, she’d settle for Plan B and get pissed.

‘All I ever wanted was Dwayne’s babies!’ howled Chelle, her eyes muddying with mascara, a rivet of snot glistening next to the gloss on her lips. ‘Imagine how beautiful they’d be!’

Holly dabbed at Chelle with a tissue. ‘He doesn’t deserve your tears,’ she consoled her. ‘And you can still have babies. With someone more deserving than Dwayne.’

‘But Dwayne
is
deserving!’ wept Chelle. ‘I love him, Hol; I really do.’

‘I know,’ she clucked sympathetically. ‘But you’ll find someone else. Won’t she, Roxy?’

‘Yep.’ Roxy drained her glass and tried to remember how many calories were in crisps.

Chelle swayed giddily. ‘I just don’t get why we can’t be together!’

‘Well…’ Holly started in surprise. ‘Well, because you
can’t
. Because of the other women, remember? He cheated on you; you can’t take him back. Tell her, Roxy.’

‘Girl power!’ Roxy roused, whilst signalling to Dave for another bottle of fizz. As irritating as Chelle was, even
she
deserved a bit of dignity. When the shit hit the fan and men did the dirty, girls had to stick together. ‘He’s hardly the dream package,’ she said bluntly. ‘He’s a two-timing, wick-dipping love rat!’

‘He’s
my
dream package,’ Chelle sniffed. ‘And he’s not what you think.’

‘I think he’s an arse!’ Roxy scoffed. ‘Come on, Chelle – channel your inner Beyoncé!’

‘You’ve been so brave,’ Holly added. ‘You walked away; you’ve already done the hard bit.’

‘Nah, you don’ geddit,’ Chelle slurred. ‘I didn’t walk away –
he
did.’

Holly frowned. ‘He left you for another woman?’

‘Women,’
Roxy quietly corrected.

‘What
other women?’ Chelle bawled.

And then she spilled her drink (right over her latest It-bag). And then she spilled Dwayne’s secret.

The night didn’t last long. Holly took Chelle home in a taxi and Roxy drained the last bottle of champagne on her own. She zigzagged back to her house. She’d tried to feel sorry for Chelle, she reasoned, as she wobbled into the side of a bush. In life, she made it a policy to like people. Liking people was good karma and stuff. But she just
couldn’t
like WAGs. It wasn’t their designer lifestyles and endless supply of free handbags …it was that WAGs got famous without trying. And Roxy was forged from pure Irene Cara. Fame cost, and you had to pay for it in blood, sweat and legwarmers. Or, at the very least, in lads’ mags, calendars and late-night cable TV.

But still, Roxy had to hand it to her – even snotty, wailing and pissed, Chelle had still managed to look glamorous. Roxy inspected herself in the moonlight. She’d been letting things slip a bit lately. She was still wearing heels, but her tops had got baggier and longer and, beneath her Seven jeans, she knew she was at least three shades lighter than Chelle. What the hell was happening? Maintenance was Roxy’s middle name! Had she become so preoccupied with other people’s careers that she’d started neglecting her own? With a sinking heart, Roxy realised she’d missed her last appointment at the Tan Hut. And she’d forgotten the beautician! She
never
forgot the beautician! She went religiously, like other people went to church. But lately her legs had begun to sprout stubble, and she didn’t want to
think
about the state of her ladygarden.
Nope, there were no two ways about it: Roxy needed to beauty-up – else the Chelles of the world would take over. It might be ten thirty at night, but there wasn’t a minute to loose.

To:
Roxy Squires

From:
Celebsville
Magazine

Dear Roxy Squirls

Thanks for your email asking if you can come to the celebrity launch party of
Celebsville
Magazine, the number one destination for all the hottest gossip from planet celeb.

Unfortunately our guest list is full.

However, don’t forget to buy the first edition for just £1 when it hits news-stands next Tuesday!

Luv

The
Celebsville
Editorial Team

x

8.30am @foxyroxy

Fuuuucccckkkkkkkkkk!

8.31am @foxyroxy

#ROXYSAYS: never drink and self-tan! Am dead ringer for a fence.

She was going to die – she knew it.

If she took one more step, she was one hundred per cent certain she’d explode. The only evidence Roxy Squires had ever existed would be an orange splat and a pair of silver Nikes. But, even as she fought for breath and searched her soul for anything that approximated willpower, Roxy couldn’t help but feel proud. She was such a pro! Even at the point of death, she was
still
calculating the small screen potential. Just think, she consoled herself gleefully, she’d be a real-life case of spontaneous human combustion. She was bound to be in a Channel Five documentary with that. And a TV appearance was still a TV appearance – even if it was posthumous … it’d still count as a credit on IMDb!

And then the fleeting pride was gone, and only the sweat and pain remained.

That was it, she told herself – enough! Sod legs like Alexa Chung – this was bloody agony! She didn’t have the strength to propel herself a single centimetre more. So she stopped. Or rather, collapsed.

Roxy nosedived sweatily on to somebody’s garden wall and then – because merely sitting wasn’t quite enough – she lay on it, pressing her cheek into the coolness of the shrubbery. She closed her eyes, blotted out the world and desperately tried to suck air into her body.

Christ – why did people jog?

Were they masochists, or just mental?

As air began to filter back into her lungs, Roxy heard a moaning noise. She could barely hear it at first, over the roar of the blood in her veins, but it was definitely there: a low, agonised note, broken only by her wheezing for breath. It was a note that sounded as broken as she felt. She liked it! She enjoyed it for a moment before realising that what was making the noise was her. And then there was another noise too.

‘Roxy? Roxy? Can you hear me?’

Woody’s face was hovering above her.

Roxy choked.
Christ!
What was he doing here? Especially with her looking like this! She let her mouth drop open.
Quick! What would Liz do if she was caught in daylight with hair stuck to her forehead and a complexion like forty-per-cent burns?
She tried to blend into the wall.

‘Are you OK?’ Woody asked. His eyebrows were knitted in worry. ‘Come on, Rox – focus! What day is it? Who am I? What’s your middle name?’

‘Wha—?’

‘How many fingers am I holding up? Look, don’t panic! Just stay where you are; I’m going to call for an ambulance.’ And then his face moved out of her vision.

‘An ambu …?’ Roxy wheezed. ‘No! No! I’m OK!’ She tried to sit up.

Woody hesitated. He was already several steps away. Now that she was upright she could see his ladder, abandoned in the middle of the pavement. His bucket had rolled into the gutter.

‘But you’re making a whining noise, and you’ve gone a really weird colour!’