Could It Be I'm Falling in Love? (36 page)

‘Help!’ cried a voice on the doorstep.

Simon opened the front door and there was Roxy Squires.

‘Please, Si,’ she begged as she shivered in the February air. Clutched to her chest was a Union Jack tin. ‘You’re the only one who can!’

Thrilled to be needed (it wasn’t every day his assistance was beseeched), Simon let her in. There was something even wilder than usual about Roxy today – and it wasn’t just the Lilliputian proportions of her clothing. Of course, she was dressed more for the Balearics than for Britain and had managed to leave home without a coat … but that wasn’t it either. Roxy always looked like she’d just fallen out of bed, but normally it was in a wanton kind of way. But today she looked like she really
had
just fallen out of bed. Her eyes were wide, her expression frantic and her eyeliner was smudged so low it could have doubled as goth blusher.

He ushered her into the warmth of his kitchen.

‘What’s the problem, Rox?’

‘This!’ She thrust the tin into his chest.

Gingerly, he peered inside.

‘You see, I had this urge … this
uncontrollable urge
. And it was because of you – well, your cakes – and suddenly I was hungry; I mean,
really
hungry – like I could rip the head off a passing chicken, or stick up a garage for its Kit Kats. And then everything went funny and my mouth went dribbly and all my food morals went out the window …’

‘So you baked a cake?’

Roxy made a weird noise – somewhere between a sob and a snort.

There was a moment of silence.

‘May I?’ asked Simon. Carefully, he opened the tin, broke off a tiny chunk and popped it into his mouth. Roxy winced.

‘Not bad,’ he said kindly. ‘Carrot?’

‘You can tell?’

‘Of course – it’s a good cake! All the basics are there. The balance of flavours is great. The only thing wrong is that it looks like—’

‘Shit! It’s all right; you can say it. It’s a steaming great pile of cake turd!’

‘It looks like you put a bit too much oil in,’ Simon finished gently. ‘Carrot cakes are tricky – much harder than sponge or fruit. It’s hard to get the sunflower oil right. I’m guessing you didn’t measure the oil out right and then couldn’t get the mixture to smooth.’

‘You see!’ Roxy cried, her face suddenly alight.
‘This
is the stuff I need to know! You’re right; it was an oil-fest – total
Ann Summers stuff. God, Si,
please
will you help me? Will you teach me how to make cake?’

‘My pleasure,’ he answered lightly, and Roxy squealed with joy. He tried to hide how chuffed he felt. The twins were more interested in mastering their Xboxes than learning their dad’s skill of baking. He couldn’t believe he’d have a pupil – a
willing
one – at last! ‘Although, really, this is a very good effort,’ he told her. ‘Other than a few presentation and decoration tricks, there won’t be much I can teach you.’

‘Can we start now?’ Roxy did the running man in his kitchen.

‘Now?’

‘I don’t see the point in long engagements – you might see me without my make-up and call it off. So, anyway, I took the liberty of bringing the ingredients. I want to beat this baking bollocks and then I want to eat carrot cake for dinner – all of it – nothing else; not even a dressing-free side salad.’

Simon hesitated. The kids had after-school clubs and it wasn’t as if he had any scripts to learn. There was no point pretending he was busy – he wouldn’t be busy for months. And Roxy seemed
so
keen …

‘Right,’ he magnanimously acquiesced. ‘We’d better get to work.’

Roxy whooped and tipped her ingredients on to the counter. Simon switched on the oven and reached for his pinny, before quickly stopping himself. Normally he’d never dream of sieving icing sugar without an apron, let alone beating in sunflower oil – but then, normally he didn’t bake with an apprentice … and certainly never with a TV-presenting,
former free-shag-pass apprentice. Not that he fancied Roxy any more; he’d told Linda the truth. But he’d be lying if he said it didn’t give him a larger than medium thrill to know that he, Simon Drennan, was about to give a personal, baking masterclass to a former number twenty-three on the
FHM
chart of babes. Expectantly awaiting his bidding was a ladette – a woman whose name was forever prefixed in print by the word ‘foxy’ – someone the world best knew slathered in baby oil and dressed as a PVC air-hostess. Simon cleared his throat and wondered if he could get Roxy to call him ‘Chef’.

Fifteen minutes later the carrot cake was nearly ready to go in the oven. The carrots had been grated, the fruit zested and the nuts folded into the bowl. Roxy was a surprisingly diligent pupil, carefully listening to his instructions – even tapping the key points into her iPhone. She hadn’t even raised an eyebrow when Simon had been unable to resist any longer and had finally tied on his apron. He was enjoying himself more than he had in years. And, as Roxy obediently double-lined the base of the tin, he realised he hadn’t felt this good about himself for ages. The daily struggle to master his career felt like walking a flimsy plank, but here – in the kitchen – he could stride on solid ground. Like Gordon Gekko on Wall Street, or Bond in a Monte Carlo casino, behind a mixing bowl, in a pinny, was where Simon Drennan was king.

‘Just do it!’ Roxy instructed as they weighed the butter for the cream-cheese frosting. The delicious aroma of baking already filled the room.

‘But it’s funeral insurance!’ Simon protested, surprised. He’d
never expected Roxy to tell him to do Barrington’s ad. He thought she’d tell him to shove it up his—

‘Just take the money and run. I would.’

Simon looked at her incredulously. Surely she, more than anyone, would lambast him for stooping so low? ‘But what if anyone saw it? I’d have no credibility left at all.’

‘Credibility’s overrated,’ she said dismissively. ‘And, besides, everyone does ads. What about Clooney’s Nespresso?’

‘Yes, but George Clooney’s George Clooney. He could open an Aldi and look cool.’

Roxy frowned. ‘And doesn’t Ewan McGregor do ads in Japan? For kilts, or beards, or something?’

‘Again – it’s McGregor,’ Simon countered glumly. ‘We’re not exactly comparing like for like.’

‘Oh, rock off!’ Roxy cried, disgusted. ‘Honestly, Simon, you need to bitch up and be confident. You’re every bit as good as McGregor, you berk. You could have done
Star Wars
– easy. You just weren’t in the right place at the right time. And, let’s face it, you were
epic
as Sick Nick.’

‘I was?’

‘Monumental! You scared everyone’s keks off
and
you can do panto. I bet McGregor’d chop off his exhaust pipe to be as versatile as you.’

‘But it’s for funeral insurance, Rox – it’s so
unsexy.’

‘So? Everyone’s got to pay the mortgage. I’ve done more crap ads than you’ve made hot dinners.’

‘You have?’ Simon was taken aback. He didn’t know Roxy had done any adverts – let alone crap ones. Surely the only
kind she’d do would be for fast cars or intoxicating perfumes?

‘Didn’t you know you’re looking at the voice of Britain’s top-selling high-absorbency solution for bladder weakness?’ she batted her lashes flirtatiously.

‘I am?’

‘Not to mention that cream for lady itches …’

‘Crikey!’

‘Easiest money I’ve ever made. Ninety minutes in a voice-over studio and, six years on, they’re still paying repeats.’

Simon was stunned. ‘You’re still getting paid for work you did
six years ago?’

‘Mint, isn’t it?’ she laughed. ‘I’m telling you, Si, ads are cool! And besides, didn’t Ridley Scott do ads?’

Simon nodded numbly.

‘Bread, wasn’t it?
Unsexy
sliced? See! Your funeral-ad director might be tomorrow’s Ridley Scott! Think what a tit you’d be if you turned him down.’

Simon thought for a moment. She had a point.

‘What’s all this about tits?’ A voice cut across the kitchen. Simon jumped. Linda was standing by the door. Simon couldn’t help it – he blushed. Luckily Roxy didn’t notice – her mobile was bleeping. But his wife certainly did.

‘Linda, hi! You’re home early. We’re just cooking. Cake. Carrot cake. See?’ And he pointed at the peelings on the counter. Suddenly he was aware of how hot the oven was, how discreet Roxy’s top wasn’t and how a big smear of icing sugar had somehow smudged itself across her left breast.

Linda raised an eyebrow and looked over at Roxy, who was still totally engrossed in her phone.

‘Fucking hell!’ she declared.
‘Jesus Christ!’

Linda and Simon exchanged glances.

‘I don’t believe it. I don’t rockin’ believe it! I’ve got a job!’

‘Congratulations,’ Linda said politely. ‘Hello, I’m Linda. You must be Roxy Squires.’

Roxy looked up, her eyes shiny and filled with excitement. ‘Hi, Mrs Drennan.
I’ve got a job!
Filming tomorrow!
A job!’
And she whooped in frenzied delight.

‘Tomorrow? That’s a bit short notice,’ frowned Simon. But Roxy was too ecstatic to hear. She enveloped him in a barrage of kisses so forceful he nearly fell over.

‘Steady on, I’m a married maaa—’

But Roxy
had
already moved on and was now crushing his wife to her chest.

‘I’ve got a job!’ she sang out ecstatically. She span round and round the kitchen, with Linda forced to spin in her arms.

‘Well, that’s great, Rox.’ Simon scratched his head as he watched his wife rotate. ‘But you’ve always got jobs. You’re fully booked ‘til Christmas, remember?’

‘Yeah.’ Roxy stopped dead … Dizzily, Linda sank into a chair. ‘But this is a
job!
Christ,
there’s so much to do!’
And she flung her belongings into her handbag and hurtled out into the hall. ‘Oh – Si; cheers for this afty!’ She popped her head back and winked at his pinny. ‘It’s been epic! Nice to meet you, Mrs Drennan!’ and she hurtled out again.

‘But what about the cake?’ Simon called after her.

‘That piece of crap? Give it to your dog!’ Her voice echoed along the hall.

‘Not that one; the cake we’re still making! The one you’re having for dinner!’

‘Give that to your dog too – it’s not like
he
gives a monkey’s about wide-angle lenses!’

The door slammed and there was the crunch of stilettos on gravel as Roxy rocketed away up the drive.

Simon looked at his wife and messy kitchen.

‘But we don’t have a dog,’ he mumbled aloud.

To:
Roxy Squires

From:
Mungo Elliott, Cool Britannia TV

Roxy, you old tart! I hear you’re still touting your wares … Wanna job? Got something right up your alley. New channel … ‘Cool Britannia’. Retro stuff – does what it says on the tin. Look-back documentaries – Tony Blair with fluffy hair, Robbie off his face, social historian wankers bleating on about the importance of the Spice Girls … blah, blah.

I’m exec producing a show,
When D:Ream Ruled The Waves
– ‘re-examining the giddy days of Britpop …’. Interviews with all the usual bastards … Noel, Damon, Jarvis, that bird whose naked arse was blown up on the houses of parliament … yawn. Need a presenter to string it all together. Fancy it?

Just a day’s filming – tomorrow. Some old studio cupboard in Camden. No need for stylist / make-up – just wear whatever it is you’re passing off as clothes these days. Fluffy tops, skirt belts … Just keep it decent, for Christ’s sake – no
Basic Instinct
stuff.

Will get some infant assistant to email the script. They’re younger than ever these days. Am working with a bunch of effin’ embryos. Half of them still not in long trousers. Let’s get shitfaced sometime, like grown-ups … Make our livers bleed and pretend it’s the old days. Presenters now so bloody boring. Most too busy opening their chakras to open a bottle.

M

Rarely, in the history of high heels, have a pair of Louboutins moved so quickly.

At exactly 2.39pm on a damp, grey Valentine’s Friday, the fastest thing Lavender Heath had ever seen on two legs exited a driveway on Cherry Blossom Drive, hurtled towards the post office, and turned left at the Dog and Duck pub. Every few seconds, heel scraped metallically on pavement – but it was barely heard by the shoes’ owner above her own heavy breathing and issuings of the words ‘ROCKIN’ EPIC!’ At precisely 2.41pm the Louboutins made a sharp right into Chestnut Avenue, scuffed loudly against the wobbly sixth paving stone (still unrepaired by the council, despite Mrs Barrington-Stanley’s written complaints), turned left into Gates Green Road and zipped up to number eleven. The door slammed loudly, causing birds in the trees to start. And then peace was reinstated. Order returned to the village.