Could It Be I'm Falling in Love? (29 page)

And then, just as he was turning back into the house and the welcoming embrace of his wing-back armchair, he saw it … an envelope on the doormat. He slowly bent to retrieve it, trying not to wince at the extra pressure in his head. He frowned again and turned it over. The envelope was blank and unsealed at the back, a card poking out from its folds. He slid
it out and nearly gasped in surprise. It was a blank Valentine’s card, two tickets for the cinema inside.

Perplexed, Terence looked up and beyond the garden. And through the haze of hangover and hedge, he caught a glimpse of turquoise sequins, moving fast towards Gates Green Road.

To:
Roxy Squires

From:
Holly Childs

Hi Roxy,

Thanks for your messages inviting me for another night out. Your offers of trips to dance at Mahiki, dine at NOPI and drink at the Roxy (where else?!) were very kind, but I’m afraid I’m going to say no. You see, I don’t really go out much and, if I’m being honest, I like it that way. And whilst I’m very flattered that you want to spend time with me, I think I’d only be a disappointment. I don’t like loud music, prefer orange juice to cocktails and like my clothes practical and warm.

I’m sorry! I know you like to call a spade a spade, so I thought you’d appreciate an honest answer.

See you at the next meeting, though …

Luv

Holly

;-)

xx

Roxy emptied a carrier bag of magazines on to Cressida’s coffee table. The brightly-coloured pages of
Heat, Reveal
and
Star
spilled across the mahogany.

‘Why are you here?’ Cressida peered at her closely.

‘I thought you’d be pleased! I brought
The Economist.’
She waved the latest issue and grinned.

‘Of course I’m pleased; I haven’t spoken to a soul since Sunday.’

‘But that was two days ago!’ Roxy cried. She could have kicked herself for not coming sooner.

‘It’s the price one pays for age and unpopularity.’

‘You’re not unpopular – I like you.’

‘Well, thank you. But fifty-two per cent of the Biddington Borders voters would beg to differ.’

There was a pause.

‘Oh, and I meant to say you’re not old,’ Roxy added. ‘Come on – you’re only sixty.’

‘Fifty,’ Cressida corrected.

Roxy suddenly became aware of a grandfather clock ticking. It was the only sound in the room.

‘Anyway–’ she clapped – ‘I’m here now. I thought we could, you know …
natter.’

Cressida looked cockled for a moment. ‘Yes, all right then; why not?’ she decided. ‘Let’s natter!’

‘And check out some mags whilst we’re at it.’ Roxy grinned, surreptitiously slipping
Hair
magazine into the pile. She was going to gently coerce Cressida into a new look.

Cressida eyed the multiple Jennifer Aniston covers disparagingly.

‘I haven’t read my
Telegraph
yet. How about I just read that?’

‘Oh, OK – if you like.’

The two women sat down and opened their respective reading.

‘Great smell, by the way,’ Roxy said.

‘Smell?’

‘The paint! There’s nothing like the smell of emulsion! Other than Tipp-Ex and poppers.’

‘Woody repainted my kitchen. I had a spot of bother with my microwave.’

Roxy nodded. Woody hadn’t mentioned he’d done Cressida’s decorating. She awkwardly looked down at her magazine.

‘This is nice!’
she declared conversationally about nothing in particular. She flipped through eleven pages of Kim Kardashian and the February shoe diary of Lauren Pope. The next page was a photo-spread of Valentine’s gifts for him. Lucky him – if he liked chocolate golf balls. ‘So, any plans for Valentine’s?’ she small-talked.

‘Only to sit in my armchair and wrestle with my Sky TV remote in an attempt to find a channel that hasn’t completely given itself over to schmaltz.’

‘Yeah, it’s a bugger, all the stupid hearts and guff,’ Roxy agreed. ‘It’s bloody hard being single on Valentine’s.’

‘I dare say I’ll survive,’ Cressida replied archly.

‘Me, too. I mean, it’s just another night, right?’

‘Well, quite.’

Roxy flipped on a few pages, suddenly sad. This was no good – she was supposed to be bringing Cressida up, not down. Although, she had to admit, Cressida didn’t look too down, peering at her
Telegraph
through her half-moon glasses. But Roxy couldn’t help it. Valentine’s always gave her a downer. She hated it, with its bouquets and chocolate-measured love. Although she’d had dozens of flings, they’d always flung off before Valentine’s – and the guitarists who booty-called weren’t the Interflora type. So, over the years, in the interests of ego-preservation, she’d developed her very own brand of ‘VD tactics’ (’VD’ being an appropriate abbreviation for Valentine’s Day, seeing as the two buggers were equally unwelcome). She’d leave home mega early, looking dishevelled. Or – even better – head straight to work from a nightclub. That way she could legitimately swan around declaring she hadn’t had the chance to pick up her cards yet (whilst secretly quashing the hope of a card-tower on her return).

‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, Roxy – cheer up!’ Cressida called over. ‘Why don’t you have a nice cup of coffee?’

Roxy perked up at her kindness.

‘Thanks, Cressida; that’d be mint.’

‘The kettle’s in the kitchen, second on the right. I have mine milky; two sugars.’ And she returned to the pages of her
Telegraph
.

Obediently, Roxy stood and made her way to the kitchen. There was something about Cressida that required compliance. She didn’t know how fifty-two per cent of Biddington Borders had dared defy her. As she flicked on the kettle, she admired Woody’s new paintwork; ‘Farrow and Ball, Stone White’, the tin said. And then she looked out of the window and marvelled. She’d never really thought about windows before, but she suddenly noticed that Cressida’s were super-clean! Yep, she had to hand it to Woody … a skill was a skill, no matter how unglamorous …
and Woody cleaned a damn good window!

For once, the crossword could wait.

Sue settled down at the kitchen table with her tea (Assam) and biscuits (ginger creams) and opened her laptop. She double-clicked excitedly on her inbox. It wasn’t a Friday, so there was no email from Holly with the minutes, but that didn’t matter. Sue’s inbox was bustling with three new emails –
three!
– all tracking orders for yesterday’s purchases.

She was getting the hang of this online shopping thing. The duck egg had been just the start. Sue was amazed; shopping had become so easy! All you had to do was point and click, and a nice young man brought your purchases right to your door. And it wasn’t just the novelty of hearing her doorbell ring that made it so exciting … it was the whole new world of colour and fabrics that Roxy had opened her up to. Clothes didn’t need to be black, stretchy and elasticated at the waist. They could be sculpted and tailored – in every shape, colour or pattern you could imagine.

Yes, the duck-egg coatigan had unleashed a beast that Sue hadn’t realised still lurked inside her. Like any woman, she’d
been born with a propensity for shopping – it came as a given with the longer eyelashes and extra rib. She used to love it, back when she was Suzi and everything she wore looked good. But Sue hadn’t been shopping for years. High streets were too full of eyes to visit voluntarily, and besides – clothes weren’t fun once your middle had gone spongy. But now that she could shop from the safety of her kitchen, and not have to worry about changing-room mirrors, disparaging assistants and the looks of recognition she got on public transport – well, shopping was actually
fun!
Filling up her online basket over breakfast was exhilarating – and tracking her orders was like monitoring the arrival of Father Christmas. Admittedly, she hadn’t actually
worn
any of her purchases yet, but that wasn’t the point. The point was …
the point was
 … Actually, she didn’t know what the point was, but she was pretty sure it was good. At the very least, Roxy would call it progress. Even if the clothes just hung in her wardrobe, at least they broke up the black.

Sue clicked out of her inbox and into hobbs.co.uk. Happily, she started to browse. Roxy had told her to look out for soft purples. She dragged a silk heather blouse into her shopping cart and smiled.

And then something out the window caught her eye. Her chest went tight and her mouth suddenly dried. There was a man at the edge of her garden.

Was that
Terence?

She frowned as she tried to focus on the figure loitering at the end of her drive.

This Terence was smarter than usual. He was wearing a navy jacket and a flowery blue shirt. Even his hair was different: neatly combed with a parting. He looked strange … thinner, younger – less angry than he did in a cardigan. And then, before she’d had the chance to stop frowning, Terence raised his hand, gave a strange little smile, and hurried away up Chestnut Avenue.

Sue’s cheeks burned and her breath came out short. Why had Terence been there? And why had he been so dressed up? Had he been looking at her for long? Had he seen her eating biscuits, or caught a side view of her double chin? But then she told herself off for being silly. Of course Terence hadn’t been looking at her! Why on earth would he? No, he must have dropped something and been looking for it – that was all. Something must have fallen out of his pocket and hidden itself in her gravel. He was on his way somewhere important – hence the shirt, and the jacket, and the hair – and only waved to be polite because he knew how easily she frightened.
Yes, that was it
. It was obvious, really.

Deflated, Sue picked up her Assam, turned back to her computer and shopped.

Roxy woke from her dream with a start.

‘Bollocks!’ she cried to her bedroom. Everything had been about to go stellar.

Her fanny was fizzing and her nipples rock hard.
Could women actually come in their sleep?
she wondered. She knew boys did it as easily as farting –
but women?
She could have cursed her 6am alarm. Who the hell went jogging at night?

Frustrated, she dropped her head back on to her pillow and tried to remember the dream. Damn, she knew Austin was flabby and bearded in real life, but
Christ
, he gave a bloody good rude dream! He’d arrived for their date in his chopper, before whisking her off to wine her and dine her at the top of the Eiffel Tower. And then he’d led her into the lift for a bloody good shafting. He’d been utterly consumed with her pleasure and had spent so long perusing her ladygarden that the chopper had run out of gas. He’d sent his pilot to fill up at the chopper garage, with strict instructions to come back with Curly Wurlies.

Roxy sighed. Still, dreams were just dreams – and reality
was totally different. The real Austin couldn’t come close. She’d bet her house on him being a selfish sod under the duvet. All take, no give –
and
he’d expect breakfast in the morning.

She threw back her duvet and got up.