Could It Be I'm Falling in Love? (45 page)

6am, Lavender Heath High Street.

Roxy’s feet powered over the pavement, her trainers punching the ground with intent. She was running suicidally fast, her music loud and hard in her ears. Her iPod was set to her rage list: The Prodigy; Sex Pistols; Nine Inch Nails. No Woody. Very, very definitely no Woody.

Sue’s bedroom hadn’t seen such activity in decades. The floor was littered with discarded clothes and the windows had steamed up from the excitement. A glass of Dutch courage lay drained on the bed. Sue couldn’t believe she was doing it … that she was
actually
going to do it. She sucked in her tummy, screwed her eyes tight and tried to breathe just from the very top of her lungs.

‘Try now!’ she cried, and braced hard.

There was a tug at her bottom, strenuous straining and a cheer.

‘You’re in!’ Roxy flopped breathlessly back.

Sue opened her eyes.

It had taken three attempts, two Roxy pep-talks and one Spanx bodystocking, but they’d done it! Slowly, she let herself breathe. It felt tight, but nothing broke, ripped or popped. She was actually wearing the dress!

She looked in the mirror, agog. The dress was simple, but absolutely stunning. Floor-length, cream, with a fitted body
and wide, drapey sleeves that tapered to a point under each wrist … It was classy, expensive …
and tight!

She frowned nervously. ‘Do you really think I can get away with it?’

‘With knobs on!’

‘But my bottom …?’

‘What bottom? The Spanx has nuked it.’

‘And my tummy …’

‘Sue – you look a billion dollars!’

‘A billion?’ she laughed at the very idea.

‘Any old WAG can be a million. But you, Sue Bunce, are a classy billion.’

Sue looked in the mirror again. She couldn’t quite believe what she saw. The woman looking back wasn’t the old Sue; her hair was up, her cheekbones shone and her make-up was glamorously classic. But this woman wasn’t Suzi, either. This Sue was someone new: a perfect blend of them both. Prettier, happier, more confident than Sue, but subtler, less naïve than Suzi. She was her old self grown wiser, grown dignified, grown up.

‘Come on, Cinders.’ Roxy gently nudged her. ‘Your people carrier awaits.’

Sue nodded. It was too late for second thoughts now.

Terence and Simon were waiting in the hallway.

‘Good God!’ Terence exclaimed as Sue descended the stairs. Beneath his bow tie and dinner jacket, he was speechless. He stared in mute admiration.

‘Wow!’ Simon grinned. ‘You look beautiful, Sue – really beautiful. Kind of Princess-Leia-meets-Donna-Karan.’

‘Every boy’s fantasy, come of age,’ Terence murmured in a trance.

Sue felt her cheeks burn with embarrassment. She hadn’t had compliments in years, other than from Roxy – and she always thought Roxy was just cheering her up. She couldn’t quite remember how she was supposed to react to flattery, so she looked at the carpet and blushed.

‘Right –’ Simon jangled his keys – ‘we’d better get going!’

Terence was still staring in awe.

‘Now, you listen up, Mr Leggett.’ Roxy waggled a finger. ‘You look after Sue – you hear me? Treat her like a lady. That means no being your normal self and moaning about stuff. No nightclubs, casinos or strip bars. And
definitely
no kebabs!’ She winked at Sue. ‘They make your breath ming in the morning.’

‘Thank you,’ Sue whispered. ‘For everything.’

Roxy gently readjusted Sue’s hair. ‘No problem.’ She smiled. ‘Now, go on, you lot – rock off! There’s a premiere you’re supposed to be at!’

Nervously, Sue let Terence help her into the back of the new people carrier. She carefully arranged her dress as she sat.

‘Gosh!’ she marvelled when her eyes finally took in the sumptuous white leather interior. The car seats were plumper than her sofa. And there were TVs on the back of each headrest.

‘When Austin Jones says top of the range, he means Top Of
The Range.’ Simon grinned. He sped smoothly away from Lavender Heath and towards London, the sound of the engine just the tiniest hum.

‘It’s good of you to drive us,’ Terence thanked him stiffly. Sue hid a smile. Being pleasant to Simon didn’t come naturally to Terence. His fingers tugged at his shirt collar, as if the niceness needed help getting out.

‘No problem,’ said Simon easily, his eyes on the dark country road. ‘Any excuse to try out the new wheels.’

‘But you really don’t need to wait around and bring us back. I mean, it must be inconvenient. We’ll be perfectly fine on the train.’

Sue held her breath. She’d been so grateful when Simon had offered to drive. It was terrifying enough facing the eyes of Leicester Square, let alone the prospect of public transport.

‘It’s OK,’ Simon replied. ‘I’ll just wander around the West End – take in the lights, sniff the greasepaint … torture myself with all the hit plays I’m not starring in. I’ll be fine.’

Sue exhaled in relief.

‘Well, it’s jolly decent of you,’ Terence gruffly thanked him again.

‘No problem. That’s what friends are for.’

Sue sat back, savouring his words as she watched the countryside morph into the suburbs of London.

Friends:
that’s what Simon had said. And then she suddenly realised that that’s what Roxy and the gang were … that she, Sue Bunce, the sleazy, undeserving harlot, the crossword-obsessed,
biscuit-loving, overweight recluse, had somehow found herself
friends
.

And suddenly nothing seemed frightening any more.

Terence and Sue stood at the start of the red carpet. Ahead of them was an organised riot: a VIP corridor of people, noise and light. It wasn’t a premiere, it was a bunfight – a scrum. Autograph hunters hung over the barriers, screeching at Hollywood stars to smile into their camera phones and record messages for their mums. Harassed PRs in air-traffic-controller headsets officiously patrolled the carpet, thrusting anyone famous into the arms of the nearest film crew. There were TV cameras, radio microphones and the blinding whirl of spotlights. Celebrities glittered celestially as they chatted to news crews and dazzled the ordinary crowds. Thick-set security guards glared ominously in their wake. It was deafening, demented, Dantesque. And, at the far end of it all, a seething swarm of photographers lay in wait.

Terence looked at her nervously. ‘OK?’

Sue swallowed hard.

‘I mean, we don’t have to … I could ring Simon; we could just go home.’

‘No,’ she heard herself insist. ‘We’re here now. And this is important to you.’

She sensed Terence soften. ‘Thank you. I don’t think I could face this on my own. Too terrified everyone will laugh.’

Sue looked at him, surprised. This wasn’t the Terence she knew: the bitter, angry weatherman who thought the whole world had mugged him of his old life.

‘They won’t laugh,’ she replied simply. ‘You’re Terence Leggett, esteemed meteorologist.’

‘No,’ he smiled. ‘I’m Tornado Terry, and I’ve just got to get over it.’

They looked at each other for a moment. Slowly, Terence offered his arm.

And then they were doing it: they were walking down the red carpet and into the riot, past the autograph hunters and the spotlights and the security guards, past the news crews and the radio mics and the PRs. And then a voice cut through …

‘Hey! Tornado! Over here!’

They froze.

‘Ha! I thought it was you!’ the voice continued. It was coming from deep within the mass of photographers. ‘A couple of quick shots before you go inside?’

Terence hesitated.

‘Go.’ Sue smiled encouragingly. ‘It’s what we came for. Go and get back your old life.’

Terence nodded, looking frightened. But then he stiffened his shoulders, lifted his chin and stepped forward. Sue stayed where she was, barely breathing. This was it – make or break – Terence’s future hanging in the balance. She watched his silhouette, dark against the flashing of the cameras. Squeezed into just a few feet of Leicester Square’s pavement, a hundred photographers towered before him, crushed against barriers, balancing on ladders … a living, braying, petrifying wall of lenses.

‘Tornado Terry! This way!’

‘On your left, Mr Tornado.’

‘Just a few shots over here, please!’

‘Lovely, Mr Tornado! And again – this way, please!’

Sue exhaled in relief. The photographers weren’t being rude. They weren’t mocking. They were just doing their job. And Terence was doing all right. His shoulders were relaxed; he was smiling –
he looked happy
. It was going well; it was going
really
well!

‘What’re you working on now, Terry?’ someone asked.

Sue tensed, waiting for his bitterness to show.

‘Nothing! Haven’t you heard? I’m unemployable!’

The photographers laughed. But it was
with
him – definitely not at him.

‘Who’s your lady-friend, Terry?’ somebody asked.

Sue blinked as a few shots were fired in her direction. And then she felt the eyes of the pack upon her. Terence turned, his face a silent question. And to her amazement, Sue felt herself nod.

Gallantly, Terence took her arm and led her forward. Bulbs started flashing with more urgency.

‘This, gentlemen,’ he declared proudly, ‘is the very lovely, extremely beautiful, Sue Bunce.’

‘Bunce?’
In the middle of the pack, a camera dropped down. A lone human face was revealed. ‘What,
the
Sue Bunce? From ages ago?
Sugatits Suzi?’

And all the air was sucked out of Leicester Square, and all the noise seemed to switch itself off. Even the rowdy autograph
hunters fell silent and the traffic stopped as the whole of WC2 seemed to hang on Sue’s reply.

Sue paused. At her side, she could see Terence ready to jump in and rescue her.

She took a deep breath.

There was nowhere to hide, no front door to hurtle back to, or cup of tea to run off to make. It was time to meet the world once again.

‘Yes,’ she said, as loud as she could, her voice tiny in the vast London night. ‘Although, I’m really just “Sue” these days.’

There was a moment of silence … and then a roar.

‘Sue! Sue, this way!’

‘Miss Bunce! Miss Bunce! The picture desk’s gonna go nuts!’

‘Sue, please, over here! Look at me, please, Sue!
Look at me!’

And the air heated up and the warm wall hit her, and the whole world suddenly shone with the light of a thousand dazzling flashes.

To:
Roxy Squires

From:
The Book Show
production office

Dear Ms Squires,

Thank you for your intriguing email about the author, Holly Childs.

Obviously we’d be more than interested in having the phenomenal Ms Childs as a guest on
The Book Show
 … In fact, we’ll clear the whole show in her honour! We’d given up hope of ever booking her. We’d heard that she refuses to grant any interviews. (Actually, we’d heard that she’d dropped out of society entirely and was living in a tree house on an island …
how do these rumours get started?!)

Is Holly available to record the interview next week? Please let us know her green-room requirements … Champagne, oysters,
anything
 … !

To:
Roxy Squires

From:
Loose Women
production office

Dear Roxy,

Are you kidding??? God, we’d
kill
to have Cressida Cunningham as a guest!

We on
Loose Women
pride ourselves on telling it like it is. Nobody calls a spade a spade like Cressida Cunningham – she’s our heroine! Do you
really
think she might be interested in coming on our show?

We’ve got everything crossed in anticipation!!!

Euan opened the front door.

‘All right?’ he nodded. ‘Cressida’s online.’

‘Online?’ Woody stepped inside and tried not to smile. He glanced at the teenager beside him. He certainly looked like he’d lost some rough edges. The sullenness had receded and, although he wasn’t smiling exactly, he’d at least stopped glaring like you were shit on his shoe.