Could It Be I'm Falling in Love? (47 page)

She sighed and groped for her phone on the bedside table. Her fingers closed around it and switched it on. Immediately, it started beeping. She had messages. She touched the answer-phone icon and Tish’s voice filled her ear.

‘Rox the fox, you bad, bad girl!’ Tish’s voice bubbled with unstoppable excitement. ‘I just hope that bitch mega-paid you. No, seriously, hon – it’s hilaire! Haven’t laughed so much in
years. I
knew
there had to be a reason why you’d hidden away in suburbia, or the countryside, or wherever it is you live these days. When I saw it this morning, I shrieked so hard my pelvic floor nearly gave way …
Thank God for pilates and Davina
. Even Guy raised a smile, and you know what he’s like with the tabloids. And O.M.G!
Austin Jones
–
what a munter!
All that money and he looks like a homeless! Does he smell?
Just imagine the knob cheese
. And all the other little hobbits in the gang – what a funny bunch of freaks they all are. Anyway, babes – call me – immediately! I want all the goss; every last, gory drop!’

And then there were fourteen messages from her mother.

Roxy had barely finished her mother’s fretful messages when Simon’s text had come through. There had been no time for make-up; she hadn’t even brushed her hair. She’d thrown on some leggings and was hurtling up Simon’s drive as the people carrier pulled up. Panting from the rush, she watched as Simon got out, did a secret-service-style three-sixty inspection, and then opened the rear passenger door. Wearing shades and a hoody, Austin slid out. Simon ushered him urgently into the house.

‘It was the only way he could get here,’ he told Roxy, the excitement of his mission making his eyes shine. ‘It’s a bunfight outside his gates: so many paparazzi, they’ve blocked the whole road! I had to wait around the corner with the engine running. He climbed over the wall and escaped!’

‘Rocking hell!’ exclaimed Roxy. Overnight, the world had gone mad.

Inside, the house was like emergency headquarters. The group was sat in a daze, with Linda cooking bacon butties and issuing tea. Despite the extra sugar in hers, Sue was visibly shaking.

‘I was so frightened.’ She wrapped the duck egg tightly around her. ‘They were all at the end of my drive! I couldn’t go out. I couldn’t even go downstairs to make a cup of tea because I’d left the curtains open and their lenses were all pointing in. Luckily, Woody saw the commotion. He brought his ladder round the back. We came out over the fence.’

There was a noise at Simon’s front door. Everyone froze.

‘The paparazzi,’ hissed Chelle, her voice laced with as much excitement as dread. ‘They must’ve followed us here!’

Linda marched into the hall, guns blazing. But a moment later she returned with Woody.

‘It’s not good,’ Woody admitted as he dropped a stack of
Sunday Post
s on to the table. ‘I bought all the copies in the shop – not that it’ll make a difference. The story’s already out there.’

‘It’s probably in Honolulu by now,’ Roxy told them. ‘Things go global faster than you can fart.’

Somebody whimpered. Everyone picked up a paper and read.

‘It’s mainly about you,’ Woody warned Austin.

Austin looked grim but unsurprised. He examined the front page. ‘One for the cuttings book, I see!’ he said wryly. ‘FROM HUNK TO DRUNK’, read the headline. ‘HOLLYWOOD STAR IN THE GUTTER’. The entire front page was a picture of Austin – flabby, drunken, and lying on a pavement. It had been taken
at night, the flash catching his eyes and making him look deranged. He looked more like a hobo than a star, almost unrecognisable from the man from the billboards. He was wearing a tatty anorak and an ill-fitting shirt, a roll of hairy gut peeking out underneath. His mouth was open, his teeth looked dirty and something pale was matted in his beard.

Chelle gasped. ‘My shoes!’ she shrieked.

Everyone looked closely. And, sure enough, Chelle’s orange peep-toes were in the edge of the shot – one shoe darker than the other.

‘It’s outside the Dog and Duck!’ exclaimed Simon. ‘It’s the night Austin puked! We were all standing right next to him, working out how to get him in the back of the people carrier without smacking his head.’

‘But how …?’ Terence was flummoxed. ‘I mean, it was only us there. The street was empty.’

‘I told you you pissed on my shoes!’ Chelle poked Austin angrily. ‘Three hundred quid, they cost me.’

Roxy frowned. ‘But there wasn’t a photographer; we’d have seen the flash. And besides, hadn’t the paps all gone back to London that night?’

‘They have their ways,’ Holly said obliquely. ‘The papers can do anything, if they want to.’

‘For the full story turn to pages 2, 3, 6, 7 and 13’
, the paper instructed. Everyone flipped the page over.

‘EXCLUSIVE BY NICOLA BLUNT
’, announced the headline. And there was the familiar silhouette.

‘Can somebody read it out?’ Sue asked weakly. ‘I can’t keep
the paper still. My hands are shaking.’

Woody started to read.

‘“From Hollywood hero to urine-soaked zero, movie star Austin Jones was left seeing stars this week as he rolled around in a gutter outside his local boozer. Critics have hailed Jones, 37, the greatest actor of our generation. He was the plucky Brit who conquered Hollywood with his prodigious talent and dazzling smile. His movies broke box office records the world over. But just a few days ago, onlookers were dazed to see the
Puppy Love
star drunk and disorderly on a public street, ranting incoherently, and soaked in his own vomit and urine.”’

Sue gasped. ‘That’s outrageous!’ she declared loyally, touching Austin’s arm in support.

‘Actually, it’s pretty accurate,’ said Cressida. ‘He
is
a Hollywood star; he
was
lying on the pavement; and he
had
just spent a penny on himself.’

Woody read on.

‘“It’s a sad decline for the actor whose recent movies were plagued by whispers of drinking and out-of-control womanising. Jones, who famously announced he was quitting movies to take “early retirement”, returned to the UK in January. But with evidence like this, the question must be asked … was it his choice to leave Hollywood, or did Hollywood kick him out?”’

‘See?’ Terence whispered righteously.

Woody read silently for a moment. ‘I’ll skip this bit. It’s just some shitty stuff about the studios wanting you to have Botox. And then there’s the usual guff about you sleeping with your
co-stars … OK, here we go … “Back in the UK, the extent of Austin’s problems has become apparent. With no acting work to divert him, his alcoholism has been given free rein. He drinks anything he can get his hands on and, when the booze runs out, he drinks meths.”’

‘That was a joke!’ Austin protested.

‘But
when
did you say that?’ Roxy puzzled. ‘Was it at one of our houses, or in the Dog and Duck?’

‘The landlord!’ shrieked Chelle. ‘The landlord’s the grass!’

‘Everyone knows pubs are in trouble,’ added Terence. ‘Doesn’t one go out of business every second?’

‘Dave wouldn’t have sold the story,’ Woody said calmly. ‘He’s a decent bloke. He’s not the kind to go running to the papers.’

‘Keep reading!’ cried Chelle, excited. ‘What else does it say?’

Woody scanned the article. ‘Blah, blah … “Frequently drinks ‘til he vomits … His good looks fading fast … Waistline bloated … Eyes bloodshot … Grown beard to hide double chin … Often speckled with own vomit … Rarely washes …”’

‘I do wash!’ Austin interrupted. ‘A bit.’

‘… “Spends his days holed up in his ten-million-pound mansion, drinking heavily and watching porn. The increasingly isolated star demands that his meals are brought to him on a motorised boat via the network of swimming-pool lanes he’s had built into the rooms of his house …”’

‘I’ve only done that a few times,’ Austin protested. ‘What’s the point in being rich if you can’t have a laugh?’

‘“The only time he leaves his mansion is to go to a bizarre
self-help group of other washed-up celebs, where he has become ‘showbiz mates’ with a gruesome bunch of Z-listers …”’

‘Z-listers?’ Chelle echoed in outrage. ‘How dare she? If my Dwayne ever got his hands on that Nicola Blunt cow—!’

‘I thought you and Dwayne had split up?’ Roxy asked, surprised.

‘We have.’ Chelle slumped, suddenly doleful.

‘“One such showbiz mate, Sue ‘Sugatits Suzi’ Bunce, has become the subject of Jones’ perverted obsession. Jones, who claims to be single despite living with fiery, Latino girlfriend Carmen Bonitta (twenty-five), makes routine unwanted sexual advances to women, and has a kinky appetite for virgins …”’

Holly gasped.

‘I’m not a virgin! I’m not!’

‘“… but it’s ‘Sugatits Suzi’ who Jones is really after. The
Love Games
and
Missing You
star has become obsessed with the big-breasted model, who shocked the nation with her sleazy affair with married MP, Rupert Hunt. Suzi, who made her first public appearance in twenty-eight years earlier this week, is rumoured to be making a comeback with a no-holds-barred kiss-and-tell autobiography …”’

‘Oh my goodness, Austin – I didn’t …’ Sue had gone deathly pale. ‘I mean, the way they’ve put it makes it look like I …’

Austin smiled. ‘It’s OK, Sue. I know you didn’t go to the papers with this.’

‘I would never …’ she protested, appalled.

‘The book was my idea,’ Roxy stepped in. ‘It’s nothing to do with you, Austin, I promise.’

‘But how do they know all this stuff?’ Simon scratched his head. ‘How do they know about the meths, and the dinner, and the swimming lanes? One of
us
must have told them and it
wasn’t
me!’

‘Or me!’ Chelle snorted quickly.

‘Nor me!’ Holly declared.

‘Do many people come to your house?’ asked Woody.

Austin shrugged. ‘The cooks, the cleaners, the gardeners, the housekeeper, the accountant, the woman who does the laundry, the guy who cleans the pool lanes, Carmen’s mates …’

Woody flipped through the paper again, before suddenly stopping. ‘There’s more,’ he announced grimly. And slowly he turned the paper to show them. Centre page was a photo of Sue with ‘
I JUST WANNA BE SUGATITS!
’ in capitals.

Sue gasped.

‘Oh my God! But how do they …? I’d had a sherry, I was upset!’

‘Disgusting!’ Terry exploded. ‘Utterly, despicable.’

‘What are they saying about me?’ Sue began to hyperventilate.

Woody took a deep breath and proceeded carefully. Everyone cringed as he read.

‘“Neurotic, ageing sex bomb Sue ‘Sugatits Suzi’ Bunce may have been looking radiant on the red carpet at the premiere of
Fluffy Love Stuff
this week, but it was a far cry from her normal appearance. Sue, 53, has spent years hiding from the world in her luxury Lavender Heath home, stockpiling biscuits
and bingeing on junk food. The former model – whose career was destroyed when lurid, confectionery-based details were revealed of her affair with former MP Rupert Hunt – has been piling on the pounds and losing her grip on reality. But recently, friends say that the chesty, scale-tipping scandal-survivor broke down entirely, insisting she’ll regain her former sexy curves and show the world that she can ‘be Sugatits Suzi again’.”’

Sue’s eyes filled with tears.

‘It’s not like that! I mean, I know I said it, but I didn’t think—’

‘The fucking bastards!’
Austin exploded. ‘They can say what they like about me – I can take it. But to go after my friends …? I’m fucking livid!’

Simon frowned. ‘Who is this Nicola Blunt, anyway?’

‘She’s dead, that’s what she is,’ Austin raged.

‘I’ve never even met her,’ wailed Sue.

‘Nobody knows what she looks like,’ Roxy told them. ‘We only know her name and silhouette. She claims she mixes with celebs like a shadow, catching them when they think no one’s looking. It’s all just a con. It means she can write about everyone else’s dirty laundry, but nobody can find out about her own. The truth is, she’s a bitchy, conniving coward and if I ever met her in real life I’d—’

Chelle shrieked.

‘Oh my God, Terry – you’re in ‘ere too!’

She pointed a nail into the newspaper.

‘What the …?’ Terry spluttered.

‘WEATHERMAN OGLES WARM FRONT!
’ And there was a photo
of him standing next to Sue on the red carpet, tongue out as he looked down her cleavage.

‘“Terry ‘Tornado’ Leggett,”’ read Chelle, ‘“… obviously not a leg man!”’

‘I wasn’t …’ Terence protested his innocence. ‘I never … It’s just the angle!

‘“… ‘I’m a national joke’ …”’ Chelle continued, oblivious. ‘“… ‘Everybody hates me, but I don’t care; I just want to get my hands on Sugatits’ …”’

‘I don’t!’ Terence insisted, red faced. ‘I’m not a bloody pervert. Not that you would need to be a pervert to …’ He looked at Sue.
‘Oh, Christ!
Are they allowed to print this rubbish? Can we sue?’

‘Cressida,’ Roxy said quietly, pointing to yet another article.

Cressida leant forward and put on her glasses.
‘“FROM WESTMINSTER VILLAGE TO VILLAGE IDIOT
”,’ she read. ‘“Former Secretary of State for Work and Pensions, Cressida Cunningham, may have dominated Westminster Village but, in her home village of Lavender Heath, she’s fast gaining the reputation of village idiot. Since losing her seat in the last general election (plus its accompanying army of taxpayer-funded helpers) the former MP is said to be struggling with all aspects of everyday life, from making friends to mastering simple household items. Not only has the former minister confessed herself lonely and friendless, but she is also flummoxed by ordinary, idiot-proof gadgets such as TV remotes, microwaves and coffee makers. ‘If it’s got a plug on it, or needs batteries, she’s stumped,’ a neighbour told me. ‘She might
have been a big cheese up in London, but round here she’s little more than a laughing stock.’”’

Everyone was quiet for a moment.

‘You OK?’ Roxy asked in concern.

‘Nobody’s laughing,’ Woody said gently.

Cressida took off her glasses and sat back.

‘Oh, don’t worry about me,’ she said cheerfully. ‘I don’t give a fig what they put in the papers – never have, never will. Besides, it could have been worse.’ She smiled mischievously. ‘At least she didn’t mention my gimp!’