Could It Be I'm Falling in Love? (49 page)

Simon dropped a packet of porcini mushrooms into the basket and tried to filter out the sound of Scarlet’s droning. He felt a brief pang of guilt about not concentrating on the chat of his daughter – after all,
any
communication from Scarlet was better than
no
communication – but his brain was still too full with the
Sunday Post
exposés to concentrate on the latest twists and turns in the on-going soap opera of teenage life. Besides, it wasn’t like Simon could
totally
turn off his daughter; she
was
reluctantly mooching beside him, after all. The price of him running the gauntlet of the photographers to ferry her to street dance was a quick but vital pit stop in Waitrose to get the ingredients for tonight’s open-ravioli-with-squash-and-porcini dinner.

Scarlet’s voice briefly filtered into his consciousness …

‘… And then Jessica said deodorant gives you cancer, but I was like,
so?
I’d rather be dead than smell of BO. And besides, everyone knows lipgloss makes your teeth go black, so she’s sooo gonna look like an old witch by the time she’s nineteen, because you never, ever see her without jelly-baby pink …’

… and then it filtered straight out.

How
had
Nicola Blunt found out all their secrets? Simon wondered as he searched for the organic soya yoghurts. Had Austin
really
been as unsurprised as he seemed? Was having horrible stories in the papers just part and parcel of having fame? Simon had had quite a few nasty stories when he was Nick, but they’d stopped as soon as the jobs had dried up. But Austin had retired – and
still
the stories were being printed! Did it upset him? Did he care? Had he trained himself
not
to care?

Suddenly, Simon found his path blocked by an old lady.

He looked at her. She seemed inoffensive enough: about four and a half feet tall; wrapped in a hat, scarf and coat. But she had definitely wedged her trolley between him and his daughter – and she was definitely giving him ‘the look’.

Simon stopped.

And then the old woman turned to Scarlet. ‘Run away, little girl,’ she told her in her wavery, old lady voice.
‘Run away.’

‘Excuse
me!’ Scarlet answered with maximum sarcasm, cross at the interruption to her tooth-decaying-lipgloss diatribe. She looked the old lady up and down, as though she were not really a sweet-looking granny going about her weekly supermarket shop, but actually a huge, giant turd in tights whose sole purpose of getting out of bed that morning had been to seek out Scarlet and waft its vile, turdy smell up her nostrils. ‘Like,
we’re talking!
Duh!’ Scarlet spat.

But the old lady was unshaken. ‘It always starts with the talking,’ she said knowingly. ‘He’s trying to sweet-talk his way into your knickers.’

‘Are you mental?’ Scarlet recoiled from a fresh waft of turd. ‘Are you
actually properly mental?’

The woman nodded self-righteously. ‘I’ve seen him, lurking in soft fruits. He preys on young girls. He
sniffs!’

Scarlet turned to her father. ‘Are you actually going to stand here and take this?’ But before Simon could reply, Scarlet decided enough was enough. ‘Fuck off, you retard!’ she yelled with more venom than three years at RADA had ever helped Simon conjure. ‘He’s not a pervert; he’s my
dad
! He’s an actor – geddit – he
acts!
Christ!’

And she stomped angrily away from the turd’s orbit.

Simon and the old lady were left togther. An awkward moment passed.

‘Sorry, dear,’ the old woman eventually muttered. And she slowly shuffled off to the spam.

But Simon was beaming ecstatically. He was smiling so hard his face nearly cracked. And suddenly he was welling up too. Scarlet’s solidarity had moved him to tears. Technically ‘he’s not a pervert’ hadn’t been the most glowing of endorsements, but he didn’t care. It was the closest thing to a compliment Scarlet had given him in years. His daughter had defended him! Scarlet Drennan had taken on the Sick Nick brigade and blown them clean out of the water.
And
she’d called him an
actor
. An actor!

Blinking back tears of pure happiness, he hurried off to the tills where his daughter was nose-deep in
Heat
.

Roxy looked up from her book.

Normally she didn’t read books; they were zero use as latest-It-people/hottest-nightclub research, and they took too long to finish. But today she’d found herself reaching for her bookshelf and perusing the dozens of free beach-reads she’d ripped off the covers of mags. She wasn’t sure what had come over her. Was it boredom or ‘new Roxy’? she wondered as she curled up in her armchair with her paperback. Whichever, her taste for the gossip mags had vanished. Maybe it was down to the
Sunday Post
scandals or down to her finished career – but suddenly she knew with absolute certainty that one of her addictions was finally broken. She’d gone cold turkey on
Heat
.

‘I’m going out,’ Sue declared.

Roxy looked at her friend. She cut a striking figure as she stood in the doorway. Several parcels of internet purchases had arrived that morning, and she was dressed to the nines like Audrey Hepburn. In her swing coat, headscarf and movie-star specs, Sue was the epitome of celeb incognito.

Roxy frowned.

‘Are you sure? The paps are still out there.’

‘I can’t hide here forever,’ Sue blustered nervously. ‘Besides, I thought I’d drop in on Terence.’

Roxy studied her carefully. Sue shifted on her new kitten heels.

‘Well, I think
someone
should see how he’s doing,’ she added. ‘I mean, it’s not nice being a prisoner in your own home. We’re lucky being here together. He’s probably going up the wall on his own.’

‘OK,’ Roxy replied lightly. She pretended to return to her book but inside she was ready to star jump.

‘Ummm, Roxy?’ Sue anxiously took off her sunglasses. ‘Do you think the
Sunday Post
was right?’

Roxy kept her eyes locked on the page.

‘About Austin being chucked out of Hollywood? Or about him being a sex addict alky with a gut?’

Sue fiddled with the buttons on her new coat.

‘About Terence,’ she managed to reply.

Roxy couldn’t help herself. She looked at her friend. Sue was in a pickle; bound up like a contortionist by her embarrassment. But sometimes it was best to play thick.

‘What about Terence?’ she asked flatly.

‘About him …
you know!
About him … maybe … possibly … just a little bit …
fancying
me.’ Sue’s cheeks were bubblegum pink.

Roxy put down her book.

‘Sue, does Liz cleanse, tone and moisturise?’

‘Eh?’

‘Can Kate rock a party?’

‘Um …’

‘Do midi-skirts ming, maxi-skirts rock and nude shoes double your shaggability?’

‘Well, I suppose so.’

‘Yes!’
Roxy sang out in reply. ‘
Yes, Terence fancies you
. He’s fancied the bones off you since the moment you met. It’s been as obvious as a newsreader’s dye-job!’

‘You really think so?’

‘The
whole world
thinks so.’

‘Oh!’ Sue declared, blushing. And then she furrowed her brow. ‘But why didn’t he just come out and say so?’

‘Short of getting the words tattooed across his forehead, he has! Haven’t you noticed how he always sits next to you at meetings? How he’s vamped up his wardrobe, restyled his hair and is a thousand times nicer to you than he is to anyone else?’

‘Well, I suppose—’

‘He asked you to the premiere, Sue. He blushed when he saw you in your dress.’

‘But that wasn’t a date. It was moral support.’

‘He was trying to impress you.’

‘He was?’

‘I give up!’ Roxy went back to her book.

There was a moment of silence. And then she could practically hear the smile crack across Sue’s face.

‘Right,’ said her friend, trying to sound as though everything was still normal. ‘Well, like I said, I’ll pop round for a cup of tea. Just to see how he is.’

Roxy fixed her eyes on her book. But in her peripheral vision she could see Sue starting to bloom, a gorgeous radiance lighting her up from the inside, as though someone had finally found the plug to her fairy lights within.

‘Yes, maybe you should,’ Roxy agreed lightly, and bit her lip to keep her glee from bursting out. Who would ever have thought it? Who could have imagined that a middle-aged former TV weatherman, with skin the colour of skin, and teeth the colour of teeth, could have been the knight to kiss the sleeping beauty and wake her up to the rest of her life?

‘Well, I’ll be off then.’ Sue tried to sound casual.

‘I won’t wait up,’ Roxy replied.

But Sue didn’t notice; she’d already departed, her feet floating over the gravel as she wafted dreamily in the direction of the Tornado.

It had nearly killed him to wait until Friday. But nothing alarmed his older clients more than an unexpected ladder at their window, and Mrs Childs’ windows weren’t due until then. So Woody’s patience had been stretched to its furthest limit as he’d watched the week crawl by. But Friday was here at last and he gave a last polishing sweep to Mrs Childs’ final gleaming window.

He knocked on her door for his wages.

‘How’s Holly, Mrs Childs?’ he asked casually, after he’d chatted about the weather and accepted a handful of warm coins.

The old lady blinked. ‘Holly? Why, she’s out, silly!’

‘No, not that Holly.’ He took a deep breath and tried out his theory. ‘I mean Holly – your daughter, Mrs Childs.’

‘Oh!’ the old lady’s face went tight.
‘That
Holly. I haven’t spoken to Holly in years.’

Something in Woody sank. ‘Years?’

Mrs Childs tutted crossly. ‘You try and do right by your children, but she stopped listening the moment she went up to
university. Took up with that Scottish hippy fellow. Peculiar, he was. Only ever ate cabbage. Of course, as soon as she finished she moved away with him.’

‘Where to, Mrs Childs?’ Woody tried to sound light.

‘I keep forgetting. It starts with an
S
. Or is it a
P?’

‘And you’ve not seen her since?’

‘What, Holly? Yes, she’ll be back in a minute. It’s chops for dinner tonight.’

‘No, the other Holly.
Your
Holly, I mean.’

‘She’s not
my
Holly.’ Mrs Childs pursed her lips. ‘She’s made that perfectly clear.’

‘She’s writing a new book, you know,’ Woody told her, wondering if the old woman might relish news of her daughter.

‘That’s nice,’ she replied flatly. But then she smiled. ‘So are you a friend of Holly’s, dear?’

‘Lodger Holly?’

‘Yes, lodger Holly. So much easier to talk to. Always cheerful. Should I give her a message?’

Woody smiled politely.

‘No, thank you, Mrs Childs. No message.’

He walked back to the pavement, his ladder suddenly heavy on his shoulders.

To:
Roxy; Terence; Woody; Chelle; Simon; Sue; Cressida; Austin;

From:
Holly Childs

Hey everyone,

I’ve had an idea. Why don’t we all meet up on Sunday to read the tabloids together? If there are no more stories about us this week, great – we can celebrate with some breakfast! But if there is more horrible coverage, then at least we can face it together.

How about meeting in the upstairs room at the Dog and Duck? Dave said he’ll open up early, and he’s even promised to lay on bacon butties!

Is 8.30am too early? I don’t expect any of us will fancy a lie-in, and the paparazzi won’t have got up by then!

Luv

Holly x