Could It Be I'm Falling in Love? (28 page)

‘You all right?’ He grinned from behind movie-star sunglasses.

‘Perfectly,’ she replied tartly, wondering what glare he was expecting from a February dawn.

‘Been trashing your house?’

‘A minor fire in the kitchen.’

‘Need to go to hospital?’

‘No, thank you.’

‘I could give you a lift?’

‘Not necessary.’

‘Come on, Cressida; it’s bloody arctic out there. There’s a poodle frozen solid down the road. At least come and sit in my car.’

‘I’m perfectly fine where I am.’

‘It’s got heated seats.’ He raised an eyebrow.

Cressida folded her arms.

‘So, what happened?’ He nodded towards the fire engine. ‘Overheat your rollers?’

‘My bacon, actually,’ she said primly. ‘It exploded. In my microwave.’

‘You
microwave
bacon?’

‘It’s quicker than frying.’

‘So? That’s what staff are for.’

‘You
have staff
to cook your bacon?’

‘You
don’t?’

Cressida thought for a moment. ‘Maybe I should,’ she conceded. ‘I never
can
work my blasted grill. Cookers are so complicated: more knobs and dials than NASA.’

‘Exactly! Leave cooking to the professionals. They love all that danger.’

Cressida scanned Austin’s face for sarcasm but, strangely, none seemed to be there. And then, before she knew it, she told him …

‘I only went into the hall for my post, but I got distracted by the cover of
Pensions Weekly
. And the next thing I knew, the smoke alarm was ringing. So I dashed back into the kitchen, found the microwave ablaze, and—’

‘Your bacon was bacon,’ he finished solemnly.

‘Well, quite.’ And then she sagged. ‘Apparently it was the tin foil that did it. The fireman told me I should never have put it in the microwave.’

‘How were you supposed to know that?’

‘Everyone knows it, apparently.’

‘Everyone knows who won
X Factor
– doesn’t mean we should, too,’ Austin reasoned.

Cressida smiled at the good sense of his point. ‘I’m a bit of a novice at home economics,’ she admitted.

‘Me, too. A total cookery virgin, with no plans for being seduced.’

‘When I was an MP, I had a cook. I worked twenty-hour days – I didn’t have time to boil a kettle.’

‘And why the hell should you? There are plenty of kettle-boilers on the dole. Give them a job, that’s what I say!’

Surprised, Cressida regarded him again through the open car window. He was being three-hundred-per-cent more charming today. And as she looked, he took off his sunglasses, dropped his chin and fixed her with puppy-dog eyes. A naughty puppy dog, that was – one that had probably just widdled on the carpet, or tried to make love to someone’s leg.

‘Come on, Cressie,’ he drawled. ‘Drop your frozen backside on to my nice, warm seat and let me whisk you back to mine for unthawing. I’ll get Cook to make you some breakfast. Hell, she could even do you a bacon sandwich. Although, I always had you down as more of a sausage girl.’

Cressida folded her arms and tried to think of all the good reasons why she should say no … Austin’s vile behaviour at the meeting, his rudeness, his arrogance, his juvenile car … the guarantee of his complete indiscretion … the fact that he would doubtless tease her forever about her state of undress. Of all the people she could hope to be rescued by, Austin Jones was bottom of the list. But then again … he
was
being surprising civil and she
had
gone numb from the nose down.

‘I don’t bite,’ he promised teasingly. ‘Unless you ask.’

And just as she was feeling herself being lured by his heated seat, Cressida remembered her senses. ‘Why are you up so early?’

‘Is it early? I thought it was late.’

‘Have you been to bed at all?’

‘Is that an offer?’

‘Just answer the question, Mr Jones.’

‘Are you always this nosy, Ms Cunningham?’

‘Only when my personal safety depends on it.’

‘I’m offering breakfast, not a tour of my severed head collection.’

‘Are you drunk? Because I cannot condone drinking and driving.’

‘That’s OK – you won’t be doing the driving.’

‘Oh, for goodness sake – where have you
been
, Austin?’

He grinned. ‘A couple of casinos, cocktails with Peter Stringfellow, several sublime hours of sexual depravity and infantile submission with a few of my large-chested chums …’

‘I thought as much.’

‘Really? But I’m not the one hanging out in lingerie, kerbside.’ He lasciviously eyed the terry-towelling. ‘The way I see it, Cressida, I’m the best offer you’ve got. Oh, come on – hop in. What’s the worst that can happen?’

Cressida thought for a moment. The village was quiet, traffic was light and Austin’s house couldn’t be more than a minute away. Surely the statistical likelihood of him crashing was microscopic. And she was rather hungry, and more than a little bit cold.

‘I’m not dressed,’ she reasoned half-heartedly.

Austin shrugged. ‘You’re wearing more than most of my visitors.’

Cressida looked back at her house. There was no sign of the fire crew re-emerging.

‘No speeding,’ she instructed, as she scooted to the passenger door and hopped in. ‘I’ve got my reputation to think of.’

‘Me too.’ Austin grinned, and he noisily revved up the engine.

It wasn’t the ideal start to the jog. Roxy hadn’t had a hangover so bad since … well, since January 2
^nd
. Concentrating on everyone else’s career had turned her into such a nun, she’d barely had time to get bladdered. She almost missed the feeling of death rot. But last night Terry had been a surprise. Who’d have thought the Tornado could sink so much tequila? With shaking hands, she buried her forty-per-cent-proof sheen under an extra layer of slap and bent down to tie up her laces.

The knock on the door came at six thirty.

‘Ready for round two?’ Woody grinned.

Roxy grunted and then they set off. And this time, to her amazement, she made it to the pub with ease. Her mood lifted. She’d always had a theory she functioned best on a hangover. Some of her best telly had been done still pissed. Her Liam Gallagher interview had got five stars in
The Sun TV Mag
, and she’d thrown up twice between takes (once over his Adidas shell toes). Maybe it was the same with jogging, she wondered. This didn’t hurt half as much as the other day. Next time she
wouldn’t bother with a bottle of water; she’d run with a vodka and tonic instead.

‘Good night?’ Woody interrupted her thoughts.

‘Huh?’

‘With Terry?’

‘How do you know about that?’

‘He booty-called me. Actually, it was more of an SOS. He was so drunk, he got his key jammed in his front door. He rang for help getting in.’

‘Is there no end to your talents?’ Roxy teased. She was beginning to feel feisty. She’d forgotten how liberating hangovers were. It was as though all the alcohol sloshing in her system had washed her motormouth free of restraint. ‘So you clean windows, fix fuses and come to the aid of weathermen in distress … Seems like the only thing you
can’t
do is see the wood for the trees.’

Woody looked at her askance.

‘Meaning what, exactly?’

‘Meaning, what the hell are you doing with your life, Woody? You’ve made your point; you don’t
need
to be famous – I get it! But when are you going to get back to what you’re
really
good at?’

‘I’m
good
at cleaning windows.’

‘You’re good at being a pop star!’

Woody sighed. ‘Roxy, I’ve already told you, I don’t want my old life.’

‘But what’s so bad about being successful?’

‘Nothing.’

‘So why don’t you give it another try?’

‘No.’

They turned into Cherry Blossom Drive. Roxy thought for a moment and then tried another tack. ‘If you thought your version of “Could It Be I’m Falling In Love?” was cheesy, why did you release it?’

‘Because my manager said that I should. Because I was young and polite and didn’t like saying no.’

‘Is that why you shagged so many women?’ she asked cheekily. ‘You were just a boy who couldn’t say no?’

‘The stories of my sexual prowess were greatly exaggerated.’

‘So you
didn’t
shag half of London?’

‘Just a third,’ he replied, straight-faced. For a moment Roxy wondered if he really was joking.

‘Are you poor?’ she blurted.

‘Am I what?’

‘You
have
got the smallest house in the village!’

‘Bloody hell – size isn’t everything, Rox.’

‘Only men ever say that.’

‘I’ve got enough money; I get by,’ he said tersely.

‘Woody, you
clean windows
for a living.’

‘I clean windows for a life. Not everything’s about money and status.’

Roxy frowned. ‘But seriously, Woods, how many number ones did you have?’

Woody sighed again before answering. ‘Seven.’

‘And weren’t you constantly on tour?’

‘Mmm hmmm.’

‘So you should be totally wadded! Where’s all your money gone?’

‘Not that it’s any of your business,’ he stressed, irritated, ‘but I bought my parents a house and paid for my sister to go to uni. Plus, I wasted crazy money buying huge houses I never even lived in, throwing parties that lasted for weeks—’

‘That’s more like it!’

‘… And, when I quit, I had to pay compensation –
and
give the label back my advance.’

‘Sounds like your bank manager would tell you to be famous again,’ she baited.

‘Roxy, do you ever give up?’

‘Are you frightened of being famous again?’

‘No!’ Woody snorted in exasperation. But still Roxy didn’t see the signs.

‘Has this got anything to do with Petra Klitova?’ she demanded.

‘Petra?’ Woody’s stride faltered as he looked at her in shock. ‘No!’

‘When did you guys split up?’

‘A long time ago,’ he replied tightly.

‘How long?’

He frowned and stepped up the pace.

‘Did she dump you because you weren’t famous any more? You two
were
a golden couple.’

‘Whatever that means,’ he muttered.

‘Was
she
the reason you quit? Did Petra break your heart?’

‘For Christ’s sake, Rox, shut up!’

He stopped running. Roxy ground to a halt too and, to her surprise, she realised they’d already done three laps of the village. But then she noticed Woody’s expression. He was looking seriously pissed off.

‘No, Petra didn’t break my heart,’ he stated angrily. ‘No, I’m not hard up and, no, I don’t want to be famous again. Does that answer your questions? Now can we finish our jog in peace?’

‘OK,’ Roxy said meekly. Woody’s profile was angry and hard. Maybe he really didn’t want to be famous, she realised. After all, she’d given him enough chances to change his mind. He must actually be happy as a civvy. But what she still didn’t get was why. And before she could reach for her inner handbrake, the motormouth leapt into gear.

‘Is it Jennifer?’ she heard herself blurt. ‘Is she frightened of losing you to showbiz?’

‘No,’ Woody replied in a flash. ‘Jennifer’s pretty …’

There was a long pause; too long. Suddenly all Roxy could see was the laughing woman with the glossy dark hair; ‘pretty’ didn’t even begin to cover it.

‘… low maintenance,’ he finished flatly.

And beneath her peroxide hair, double-layer MAC foundation and implausibly tanned skin, something inside Roxy began to shrivel. And a second later, her hangover hurt like hell.

Terence frowned at his empty doorstep. If it was local kids playing knock-down-ginger, he’d be livid. Not that Lavender Heath kids did that kind of thing – they were usually too busy with their ponies and junior trust funds – but, if they did, and he caught them, he’d give them short shrift. Because Terence’s head felt like someone was hitting him repeatedly with a sledgehammer, and the effort it had taken to haul himself to the door had been colossal. He hadn’t had a hangover like this since the morning Barbara had left him. And he hadn’t had a tequila hangover since …
well
, since … Terence gave up thinking. Mexican spirits seemed to have wiped whole tranches of his brain.