Could It Be I'm Falling in Love? (31 page)

Sue blanched.

‘Isn’t it up to Sue to be angry about that?’ Simon needled. ‘Sue doesn’t need your protection.’

‘I’m not protecting her,’ Terence blustered unsteadily.

‘Have you ever considered that she might get sick of you defending her? That she might like to speak for herself?’

‘But–’

‘Because you actually aren’t joined at the hip.’

‘I … We’re …
Christ!
You wouldn’t understand.’

‘Wouldn’t we?’ Roxy stirred, eyebrow cocked.

‘Look at his ears,’ sniggered Chelle. ‘They’re bright pink.’

Terence looked like an angry raspberry. ‘Sue and I aren’t like the rest of you,’ he said angrily.

‘How do you mean?’ Woody frowned.

‘We didn’t just fall out of fashion. Sue and I –
we’re different
. We didn’t bring this all on ourselves. We didn’t pick the wrong projects, or get bored. We’re not famous. We’re
infamous. Notorious.’

There was a pause and Cressida snorted.

‘Our very own Bonnie and Clyde.’

‘It’s all right for you to snigger,’ he snapped. ‘You lost an election – you weren’t personally screwed by the papers. They didn’t make it impossible for
you
to find new employment. And you –’ he turned to Woody – ‘you just decided to stop! And you –’ he pointed at Roxy – ‘well, you’ve had your fifteen minutes. And you –’ he rounded on Simon –
‘you
did it to yourself! You gave up a once-in-a-lifetime TV role. You weren’t savaged by the press like Sue and me.’

‘For God’s sake, Terry – you weren’t savaged,’ Simon tutted. ‘Don’t you think it’s time you got off your high horse?’

‘
No
, I bloody
don’t!’
Terence exploded. ‘I got blamed for families getting kicked out of their homes – for children having to take their Christmas presents back to the shops. The newspapers made me a pariah – and they did exactly the same to Sue. So if anyone wants to be snide and make something out
of this that it’s not,
they can bloody well just fuck off!’

There was a long, awkward pause. Sue stared at her knees in mortification.

‘Maybe we should just stick to the point of the evening,’ Woody suggested gently. ‘We’re here to talk about Austin. Is
anyone
in favour of having him back?’

‘Yes!’ both Roxy and Chelle declared.

‘Anyone not making a judgement with their groin?’

There was another long pause. Terence started looking triumphant.

‘Yes,’ Cressida declared suddenly. ‘I think Austin should come back.’

Woody looked at her in surprise.

‘But he called you Vidal Sassoon!’ Terence cried.

Cressida shrugged. ‘He’s rich and spoilt. He’s not Genghis Khan. He just needs to get Hollywood out of his system – get his feet back on British terra firma.’

‘She’s got a point,’ nodded Holly.

‘Sue?’ Woody asked gently.

Sue hesitated. ‘Everyone deserves a second chance.’

‘And he might get us into cool parties!’ added Chelle.

‘Oh, well, that’s all right then!’ Terence thundered, as Woody’s mobile started to ring. ‘Welcome back, Austin – all is forgiven! Just carry on spouting your poison and take us to a party when you’re done.’

But Roxy was no longer listening. She was focusing on Woody. She sat up straight to catch a glimpse of his phone as he
brought it to his ear. But then her heart sank at the name on the screen … The letters that flashed were ‘JJ’.

‘All right, baby?’ Woody’s face lit up as he headed to the door. ‘When are you coming home?’

Roxy clutched the pink envelope tightly.

Home
– Woody had said
home
.

So Jennifer
did
live with Woody, after all. Even with Woody in the hall she kept straining to hear. And, over all the noise and kerfuffle of the group, she was sure she heard three little words: ‘I miss you.’

Roxy’s insides turned to lead.

That was it; game over.

She officially stood no chance whatsoever, under any circumstance, with Woody. She knew she’d told herself that before – that fancying him was wrong and bad karma and not very girl power. But, deep down, a tiny part of her had still harboured hope. But now everything was different. This was cohabitation – a whole new level of love. Cohabitation was serious and permanent and proper. Woody definitely loved Jennifer. And she’d had no right to ever hope otherwise.

She stood up. She’d lost her appetite for the evening.

‘I’m knackered,’ she said quietly, interrupting the Austin debate mid-flow. The lure of her Wonder Woman pyjamas was suddenly very strong. Actually, the lure of climbing into her Wonder Woman pyjamas and not climbing out for a week was pretty strong, too. She didn’t want a private moment with
Woody. What she had with Woody was
business
– she’d email the strategies instead. And, without interrupting his phone call to say goodbye, she slipped out the front door and back home.

Sue dropped her head between her knees and let her arms flop by her ankles, her cheeks pulsating hotly.

‘Really stick your bum out!’ Roxy instructed. ‘Go on! Feel your back-door funbags getting tighter as you really nail it with the stretch!’

Upside down, and from between her legs, Sue screwed up her face and tried to feel her backside getting tighter. Could five sessions a week really give her the pert bottom Roxy promised? It seemed unlikely. Her bottom hadn’t looked like a bottom in years – more like a landslide of flesh. Definitely for sitting on, not display.

‘Good work, ladies!’ Roxy cried from the TV. ‘Follow this workout and you’ll be bikinilicious by the end of the month. Straight up – the most booty-beautiful babe in the nightclub!’

Sue frowned. There was a big lump of fluff under the sofa.

‘And lift yourselves back up! Pull your right arm across your body and
sstttrrreeeettccchh!’

What was ‘bikinilicious’, exactly? Sue wondered as she hoisted herself painfully up to standing. And ‘booty-beautiful’,
come to that? Were they things she wanted to be? Still, she thought as she tugged her right arm across her breasts and tried to clamp it down with her left, it
would
be nice if Roxy could make her bottom a bit less unlovely. And after dusting her DVD for the last six weeks, it seemed only polite to give it a try. After all, nobody could see her doing it, and it wasn’t like she had anything else planned. The crossword barely took twenty minutes and she couldn’t internet-shop for the
whole
of the rest of each day.

‘Now
that’s
what I call a stretch!’ Roxy grinned. ‘No more bingo wings for you lot!’

Sue looked at Roxy’s image on screen. How old was this Roxy? she wondered thoughtfully. Twenty-three? Twenty-five? She certainly looked younger than the real Roxy: happier, sunnier – more relaxed. Sue stared as TV-Roxy started a set of dizzying head rolls. So what was the difference? What made young Roxy so natural and carefree? Sue tried to concentrate.

Well, normal Roxy’s hair was long and white-blonde, and tumbled down her chest like an old scarf. And it had lots of curls at the end and looked like it hadn’t been brushed. But TV-Roxy’s hair was short and flippy – cute like Meg Ryan in
You’ve Got Mail
. It was blonde – but more golden than white – and it was held in place with a bright, sparkly clip. And then there was the make-up. Yes, TV-Roxy
was
wearing make-up, but not in the same quantity as normal Roxy. And Sue felt bad for even thinking it, because time was kind to no woman … but TV-Roxy’s skin was perfect! Bright and radiant and luminous, and not in the least bit orange at all. And TV-Roxy’s
smile! How much prettier Roxy looked when her teeth were, well …
tooth
-coloured.

‘And lift the shoulders!’ TV-Roxy grinned. ‘And keep ‘em there for ten.’

Surely Roxy could look like that again
, Sue thought as she hoisted her shoulders to her ears. It wasn’t as though Roxy was old. Her skin was probably still just as radiant under all her makeup. If she’d only wear her hair up a bit more so everyone could see her pretty face … And maybe teeth-bleach wore off after a bit.

TV-Roxy was cheering.

‘You’ve done it, girls!’ she whooped. ‘Session over! Now hit the shower, be gorgeous and meet me back here tomorrow! I’m Foxy Roxy, and remember – it’s just twenty-nine more days to a foxier, funkier you! And, if you’re going to G and T, make it slimline!’

She winked and the credits rolled.

Sue stared at the screen for a moment. TV-Roxy was gone. The DVD was finished. And suddenly it hit her …
Roxy’s DVD was finished!
Which meant she, Sue Bunce, had done a whole fitness workout! She couldn’t believe it. It had been her first bit of exercise since Lord-knows-when and it hadn’t been
too
terrible. Admittedly, her face felt hotter than a three-bar fire … but she’d survived.

Buoyantly, she headed to the kitchen for a glass of water, trying to gauge whether her bottom was already tighter. She opened the cupboard, reached for a glass and was about to turn on the tap when …

There he was again …
standing at the end of her drive! His face broke stiffly into a smile and he was just lifting his arm up to wave …

Sue dropped to the floor in panic.

It was Terence!

Had he seen her? He was the
last
person she wanted seeing her like this – hot and sweaty in an old, saggy tracksuit.

What on earth would he think?
Had he seen her tummy bulging over her waistband? Had he seen her hair stuck to her neck?

But what was he doing out there? He
couldn’t
be waiting to see her. Had he dropped something again? Maybe there was a ridge in the pavement outside her house that kept making him trip? Or maybe he’d stopped to take a phone call and had just hung up the instant before she’d seen him.

And where on earth, she puzzled hardest of all, did he get that gorgeous new coat?

Although Roxy had lived in Lavender Heath for seven whole years, she’d never made it as far across the village as Hawthorne Close. Hawthorne Close was the very last road in the village and not what estate agents called ‘optimum location’. But this morning was different. Des res or not, she pulled out her phone, downloaded a map app, and set off.

As Roxy whizzed down Gates Green Road, along Chestnut Avenue and into the High Street, her head buzzed with plans. She was a glass-half-full kind of girl and, as she’d whipped off her Wonder Woman pyjamas that morning, she’d determined to put Woody behind her. Industry was the answer. Industry was
always
the anwer. And besides, this helping-out-the-group stuff was fun. She’d only thought of charity work as a career-boosting opportunity before (TV-friendly stuff involving poppies, Pudsey or cute, plucky grannies recanting stories of dancing with GI’s = good; mental illness, infectious diseases or dribbly, incontinent grannies holding your hand very tightly and not letting go = not good – and, actually, a little bit scary …). Not that Roxy was anti old people – she had a
monthly direct debit to Age Concern – it was just, despite the rest of the world thinking she was a top-volume loudmouth, old people could never hear her. She knew she should talk slower, louder and repeat everything
ad infinitum
. But talking slowly didn’t come naturally and life was too short for repeats. So, when it came to old folk, Roxy was uncharacteristically quiet, self-banished to the sidelines like a miniskirted lemon.

But this kind of charity was different.

This kind of charity was cool.

It was as if coming to the rescue of beleaguered micro-celebs was her vocation. She liked it! It made her feel good. After all those years of attacking her career like the
Total Wipeout
assault course, it was a relief to think about others for a change. And, bit by bit, she was sure she was making progress. Sue was looking for her diaries and Terry was practising scales. Slowly but surely they were dragging themselves out of their ruts. And today it was Holly’s turn to get the Roxy treatment. She couldn’t wait to see her face when she explained!

Distractedly, Roxy stepped off the pavement to pass the gaggle of paps huddled by Austin’s gates. She strained her eyes as she peered through Sue’s hedge. Was Woody doing Sue’s windows today? She was dying to know what he thought of her strategies. Why hadn’t he called? She’d sent the email thirteen hours ago – surely he must have read it by now! She’d half expected to find him on her doorstep this morning, rendered speechless by her career-resurrection genius, awestruck by her out-of-the-box plans. She fought off her disappointment and pushed on.