Could It Be I'm Falling in Love? (50 page)

Roxy stood on the Dog and Duck doorstep. She looked behind her. It was 8.30am and Lavender Heath was eerily quiet. The press pack hadn’t woken up yet and, if the locals had already ventured out for their Sunday papers, they’d left no evidence to show it. Lavender Heath was a ghost village.

Hesitantly, Roxy knocked on the door. Dave peered cautiously out.

‘Just you?’

‘Just me.’

‘You followed?’

‘I don’t think so.’

He beckoned her in. As the door opened wider, the delicious scent of bacon sandwiches wafted under her nose. Bacon sarnies were getting to be a theme of the week. Would she ever be able to read the tabloids again without remembering the smell of bacon? she wondered. Inhaling deeply, she stepped inside.

‘They’re upstairs.’ Dave nodded to the staircase.

Roxy headed up, trying to manage her nerves. Strangely,
the possibility of
more
scandal hadn’t crossed her mind. Not until Holly’s email, that was. Then, suddenly, the prospect of more exposés had been (almost) all she could think of. She didn’t care if there was anything about her; her reputation couldn’t be damaged. Once you’d shared your one-night stands with the nation and interrupted A-lister interviews with tales about fanny farts, a few lines in a newspaper couldn’t touch you. It was the bullet-proof benefit of being Roxy Squires: nobody could expose anything about her that was worse than what she’d already exposed about herself. But the others … She didn’t like to think how they could be hurt.

She pushed open the door to the upstairs room. The gang was already in there, coffee mugs and newspapers strewn around them. Hungrily, her eyes scanned the room like a laser. But Woody wasn’t there.

‘There’s more terrible stuff about Austin,’ Sue reported.

‘Where’s Woody?’ Roxy’s eyes now desperately hunted for Chelle. But, thankfully, she found her, over-dressed in the corner. She almost sighed with relief that she wasn’t with Woody. But then panic gripped her again. Where
was
Woody? She ached to see him. And, if shit was going to happen, she wanted him with her.

‘Woody’s on his way,’ Simon muttered from deep within the
Sunday Post
pages.

‘And Hol texted she’ll be here in ten,’ added Chelle.

Distractedly, Roxy looked at Chelle. Even now, at 8.31 on a Sunday morning, she was dressed to kill. Her skirt was short, her lashes were long and she’d even glitter-creamed her
cleavage. Her dedication to glamour was unstinting. But then Roxy was hit by a terrible thought. Did Chelle look so glam this morning because she was wearing the same outfit as last night? Had she glued on her eyelashes at 7am or 7pm? Had she come straight from the sticky sheets of a night of illicit Woody-love? She watched Chelle yawn without covering her mouth and suddenly felt a huge surge of anger. Did Chelle have no conscience about Jennifer
at all?
And, if she had no conscience about man-robbing Woody,
what else did she have no conscience about?
Could
she
be the
Sunday Post
leak? After all, she was always on magazine covers and she
did
have the best contacts with the press. Who was to say she wasn’t best mates with Nicola Blunt? Her motives for joining the group had been dodgy from the start …

‘You haven’t exactly helped your cause,’ Terence told Austin. ‘What were you thinking, firing water pistols at them?’

‘It was a subo-charged Flash Flood Super Soaker,’ Austin grinned, ‘and you should try it! There’s nothing like drenching a few paps.’

Roxy looked at the
Sunday Post
s spread across the table like a blanket.
‘IT’S A CHAMPAGNE STICK-UP, SAYS DRUNK-AS-SKUNK JONES.’

Austin followed her eyeline.

‘Inaccurate bollocks, as usual. I only shot champagne ‘til Tuesday. And then Carmen pointed out that the buggers weren’t worth the good stuff. That’s when I started on the plonk. By Friday, I’d got down to Special Brew.’

‘You drink Special Brew?’ Chelle screwed up her nose.

‘As if! I got the housekeeper to get it especially. If they think I’m an alky, I might as well act like one.’

Roxy turned back to the article and read.

‘“The bizarre behaviour of fallen Hollywood megastar Austin Jones reached a new low this week. The reclusive actor, believed to be increasingly out of touch with real life, was seen waving a replica gun from the windows of his twelve-million-pound mansion, and using it to shoot passers-by … with champagne. Friends are said to be at their wits’ end, concerned for the roly-poly star’s mental health, which has taken a worrying downward turn since girlfriend Carmen Bonitta furiously called time on their relationship. Since learning of Jones’ sex addiction, Carmen, nineteen, has bolted back to their home in LA, where she is being comforted by her personal trainer. Meanwhile, Jones continues to drink (and shoot) his wine cellar dry!”’

‘Oh, mate,’ Simon winced sympathetically.

‘So I’m a freshly-dumped, sex-addicted, pistol-packing, alcoholic lard arse,’ Austin shrugged. ‘I’ve been worse.’

‘Has Carmen really left you?’

‘Has she bollocks! She’s back at home, filling in job applications.’

‘So why do they think she’s in LA?’ Chelle pouted.

‘Why do the papers think anything?’ Austin replied. And then he thew back his head and laughed.

‘You don’t seem very concerned.’ Terence frowned.

‘Why should I be?’ Austin grinned manically. ‘None of this
shit
matters!
If Mrs Moral Highground from petty middle-England decides
not
to unwedge her fat arse from her sofa and waddle down to the multiplex to catch my latest rom-com,
I don’t care!
My career’s over! I don’t need to worry about whether the money men still think I’m “box office”. I don’t have to
pretend
to give a shit. As far as I’m concerned, the
Sunday Post
can print what they want – I couldn’t give a rat’s arse.’

Roxy turned away from Austin’s euphoria and looked anxiously over at Sue. ‘Is there any more about you?’

‘I don’t think so,’ Sue replied with relief. And then she gave the tiniest of smiles. ‘Well, just a little photograph from when I popped out.’

‘Oh, yeah; cop a load of this.’ Austin rifled through the paper to find the right page. He held it up. ‘I told you our Suze was a stunner!’

Roxy looked. And, sure enough, the picture of Sue was phenomenal. She was hurrying down Honeysuckle Drive, Terry-bound, in headscarf and movie-star sunglasses, her figure, larger than average, but all woman, her cheekbones Grace Kelly statuesque.

‘Fuck; that’s never you!’ snorted Chelle.

‘What’s a “bromance”?’ Cressida interrupted.

There was a choking noise from Simon’s direction. His face was as white as a sheet.

Roxy looked down at where Cressida was pointing. It was an old
Down Town
picture of Simon looking sweaty, greasy and haunted.

‘SICK NICK’S NEW CRUSH’
, trumpeted the headline. ‘Washed-up actor’s one-sided bromance with Austin.’

Everyone leant forward and read.

‘Sick Nick actor Simon Drennan may not have hit headlines for a while, but he’s hoping his “friendship” with troubled movie star Austin Jones will catapult him back to fame. The failed TV actor, last seen in nylon tights, has struck up an unlikely friendship with vulnerable Jones, currently believed to be battling problems with alcohol, sex addiction and depression. Drennan, thirty-nine, who shot to fame playing dangerous paedophile “Sick Nick” Fletcher in TV soap
Down Town
, is said by friends to idolise the
Puppy Love
star with an affection that borders obsession. “Austin’s one of the greats,” he told friends. “Like Brando, only ten times more gorgeous!” “Simon worships the ground Austin walks on,” added a source close to the former soap actor. “He’s hoping Austin will take him under his wing and make him a star, but Austin doesn’t have a clue who he is. Simon’s walking around with his tongue hanging out and Austin’s barely noticed he’s there!”’

‘Shit!’ Roxy was stunned.

The room went peculiarly silent.

‘It’s not true.’ Simon insisted. ‘I mean, for God’s sake, that’s crazy – I’m
married!’

‘And they’ve set the dogs on Woody too,’ Terence added gravely. Roxy gasped. ‘Let me see!’

Austin flipped back a few pages of the newspaper and passed it to her. Heart pounding, Roxy started to read.

‘No!’ Her legs suddenly felt flimsy beneath her.

‘What’s up?’ Woody was standing at the door, a small, blue holdall on his back. Roxy looked up. She wanted to run over to him, to throw her arms around him – to shelter him from the story ahead. But she couldn’t. Woody put down his holdall and came over.

‘“WOODENISER” WOODY PREYS ON VILLAGE HOUSEWIVES’
, he read. And beneath was a picture of Woody, carrying his ladder – grinning from ear to ear.

‘Where have you been?’ Sue wailed forlornly.

‘Sorting something,’ he replied.

‘What?’ Roxy demanded.
What on earth could need sorting at a moment like this?

But Woody wasn’t given time to answer.

‘Want me to read it out?’ Terence offered. The room went silent as he cleared his throat.

‘“It’s a fall from grace few could have predicted. In the nineties, babe-loving Woody ‘The Woodeniser’ was the undisputed king of pop. Riding high in the charts he was everyone’s favourite pop star, from schoolgirls, to footballers, to royalty. In just five years he earned untold riches, had a string of number ones, and left a stream of broken-hearted supermodels in his wake. Not a week would pass without another personal appearance being cancelled for dangerous overcrowding, or Woody being chased from nightclubs by lustcrazed fans. He had the world at his feet and the music industry at his beck and call. But then Woody went AWOL, declaring his music career over and his days as a guitar-toting lothario past.

‘“Fast forward to the present, and Woody now works as a down-at-heel window cleaner, spongeing the windows of the rich and famous. He lives with beautiful girlfriend Jennifer in the posh country village of Lavender Heath – also home to Austin Jones and Suzi ‘Sugatits’ Bunce – where Woody tells anyone who’ll listen that his womanising days are behind him, and lectures his celebrity clients on giving up their showbiz lifestyles and embracing a no-frills world of ‘honest’ manual labour. But it seems that leopards don’t change their spots. Locals claim that Woody hasn’t really reformed at all, and career-girl Jennifer is being cruelly duped. The showbiz trappings may have gone, but Woody’s eye for the ladies remains, and he cynically uses his window-cleaning job as a cover for peeping-Tom thrills and easy sexual conquests.” And then there’s a quote from you, Woody … “I love my job. I’m always getting flashed at. Half the women in Lavender Heath have invited me in for nibbles – and they don’t mean tea and biscuits.”’

‘That’s monstrous!’ cried Sue, disgusted.

‘As if you’d say
nibble!’
snorted Austin.

Roxy stayed quiet. She looked over at Chelle, who was inspecting her nails with a yawn. How could she be so uncaring in this moment of crisis? Didn’t she mind if her affair was exposed? Didn’t she care that Jennifer would be devastated, or that her lover’s reputation had just been torn to pieces? Roxy turned back to Woody. A muscle in his jaw had begun to flex. He looked angry but, strangely, not surprised.

‘Where’s Holly?’ he asked the room lightly.

‘Who cares about Holly?’ ranted Terence. ‘She’s probably trapped at home by the press. What we need is a lawyer. This is defamation. This will seriously impede your ability to operate as a window cleaner. You’ll have lost your round and your income by lunch!’

‘Fuckin’ hell!’ Chelle shrieked loudly, making everyone start with fright. She was staring at the newspaper as though a ghost had just risen out of it. She grabbed it and frantically flicked to the centre page.

‘HE SHOOTS… HE DOESN’T SCORE!
’ read the headline. ‘Dwayne Blowers’ infertility drove marriage apart.’

‘Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!’ Chelle dropped the paper as though scalded. Despite the orange, her face had turned deathly pale.

‘Chelle?’ someone asked kindly.

But Chelle was unable to speak. She was making a rasping noise, like an old banger trying to start. She motioned for someone to read. Hesitantly, Roxy picked up the paper.

‘“Three months ago, the world of football was rocked when Dwayne Blowers split from his childhood sweetheart. Premiership star Dwayne, and Chelle, twenty-three, had been together since the age of eleven and had married in a lavish two-million-pound ceremony just nine months earlier. At the time, Chelle told numerous magazines that the marriage had broken down due to Dwayne’s repeated infidelities, but the truth has emerged as less potent.

‘“Blowers’ estranged wife has now gone on the record to explain the real cause of the split … Dwayne’s impotence. On learning of his zero sperm count, the footballer made a
stark choice. He walked away from his wife, rather than condemn her to a life without children. ‘We made out Dwayne had been playing away,’ Chelle exclusively revealed to the
Sunday Post
. ‘It’s better than saying he’s firing blanks. This way Dwayne looks like a man.’”’

‘But I never went on the record with nobody!’ cried Chelle, having rediscovered the power of speech. ‘I mean, I know I do interviews and all that, but I’d never tell anyone
this
 … Oh my God;
poor Dwayne!
His teammates are gonna slay him. He won’t be able to play!’

‘But you must have told someone,’ Terence puzzled.
‘Someone
knew for it to get in the paper. I can’t imagine Dwayne would’ve told them himself.’

‘But I swear I never blabbed!’ Chelle protested wildly. ‘Christ, he’s going to
hate
me. I’m always really careful about what I say to journalists –
always
. That’s why my agent gets copy approval – to make sure I don’t put my stupid, big foot in it!’

‘But think, Chelle;
think!’
Terence urged. ‘Maybe it wasn’t a journalist. Maybe it was someone else. A doctor? A hairdresser? A friend?’

‘No.’ Chelle shook her head. ‘One hundred per cent definitely no one.’