Could It Be I'm Falling in Love? (6 page)

Hearing footsteps approaching behind the door, she gave her hair a final tease and fixed on her best ask-me-I-might smile. And then …

‘Bloody hell!’ she unwittingly blurted.

There were no two ways about it – she was staring at a vision of total bonkability. She stood stock-still and gawped. Woody’s feet were bare and he was wearing old, battered jeans and a soft checked shirt that looked at least a hundred years old. His skin glowed with health and she noticed how his forearms were manfully strong, how his eyes ended in laughter lines and how his hair was shower-damp at the neck. He’d clearly lost his hairbrush since his pop-star days –
and
his iron,
and
his stylist – but somehow the lived-in look suited him. He looked as hot as hell. She had an urge to lean over and lick him.

‘Hey, Rox. Thanks for coming over. Did you find it OK?’

She tried to ignore the butterflies moshing in her stomach. If Woody could play it cool, so could she. Hell, he might be the former favourite teen pin-up in bedrooms across the land, but she was a lads’ mag favourite and the best-selling calendar of 2000* (“internet sales only). It was time to take the bull by the horns.

‘Now, look,’ she told him sassily, ‘I know you’re Woody and women throw themselves into your lap, but don’t think you can get away with this. Normally I’d make you take me somewhere nut-crackingly expensive, but I’ve decided to make an
exception because,
obviously
, it’s more practical – me coming over to your place – because,
let’s face it
, we’re not exactly Joe and Joella Normal. We can’t just nip out for a few getting-to-know-you tequilas – the tabloids’d go nuts. But, just because I’m here, doesn’t mean you’re not going to have to put in the legwork later. I know the magazines make out I’m, like, the most promiscuous woman in the country, but it’s not true. OK, so I did those photo shoots, and that calendar, and the ‘Rox Does Cocks’ problem column, but hey –’ she stood back and did her best Steve Coogan – ‘I’m no slag; tits first!’

She waited for Woody to laugh, but he looked kind of dumbstruck.

‘It’s a
joke!’
she stressed. ‘You know – the old Pauline Calf sketch …? Anyway, what I mean is, I’m
not
the kind of girl the papers say I am. Not that I’m saying I’m
not
promiscuous,’ she added quickly, remembering the clean pants in her handbag. ‘What I mean is, I
can
be promiscuous, if the situation requires. But I’m not easy –
oh no!
I’m no groupie doormat – despite that stuff I told you about fighting on the school bus. So …’ She eyed him with what she hoped was just the right amount of allure. ‘Is that clear?’

For a moment Woody looked stunned. There was a long pause – too long for Roxy, who liked every second filled. She was suddenly seized with the fear. Had her motormouth blown it? Had she been uncool? If there was one thing guaranteed to make a celeb run a mile, it was the prospect of someone uncool. It was their greatest fear (even greater than nostril collapse) that other people’s uncoolness would taint them.
That’s why they hung out in private members’ bars and VIP enclosures – so the great, ordinary masses couldn’t infect them with their uncoolness. And Roxy seriously needed Woody to think she was cool.

She held her breath. And then to her surprise he rubbed his head and smiled.

‘Perfectly,’ he bowed politely. ‘I’ve got it. No doormat; tits first! But Rox, I think you’ve got the wrong end of the sti—’

‘Yeah, great place, by the way,’ Roxy chattered in relief. She made a show of looking around. Suddenly she noticed how small Woody’s hall was. By Lavender Heath standards it was positively poky. She could see the prospect of an MTV
Cribs
episode receding into the distance. ‘Actually, I’ll be honest, Woods – titchy drive, disappointing hallway. And, I’m not knocking your interior designer –’ she pointed at his coffee-coloured walls – ‘but isn’t this all a bit Homebase? I thought pop stars were supposed to have mansions. I expected mirrored ceilings, bowls of Viagra in every room, a separate wing for your Ferraris …’

‘You’re going to be very disappointed!’ Woody laughed.

‘Oh, I doubt that,’ Roxy replied huskily, eyeballing his chest.

Woody took a tiny step backwards.

‘Like I said, Rox, I think you’re a bit confused. Tonight isn’t a … Look, maybe I should just take your coat. I’ll get you a drink in a minute, but first,’ he propelled her gently towards a door just behind him, ‘let me introduce you to everyone.’

‘Everyone?’ Roxy echoed in surprise. But the question died
in her mouth. The door had swung open and a roomful of people were grinning right at her.

‘Here she is! Come in! We’ve just been hearing about you!’ Bottoms shuffled up and a gap appeared on the sofa.

‘But I thought it was just going to be us?’ she protested from behind a clenched smile. ‘Like, a date?’

But Woody didn’t hear. He put his hand on her shoulder and introduced them.

‘Roxy, this is Simon, Terence, Sue, Cressida and Holly. Everyone, this is Roxy Squires.’

Confused, Roxy felt the voltage as Woody’s hand touched her skin. Her nipples pogoed to attention, but her stilettos dug into the floor. Who were these people?
What
had they just been hearing about her? And what the hell were they doing on her date? She took a breath … She couldn’t stomp out – she’d miss her chance to shag Woody’s arse off. And ‘everyone’ was bound to leave soon. They were probably just his staff and Woody was one of those trendy employers who invited them for a drink before they knocked off. Yes, that had to be it!

Reluctantly, she manoeuvred into the gap on the sofa.

‘Macaroon?’ the man next to her thrust a plate of biscuits under her nose. Even though he was smiling, there was something vaguely sinister about him. His nose was ever so bony. ‘Home-made!’ he encouraged, with a grin.

Dumbly she shook her head. The sofa was uncomfortably low. It pushed her knees higher than her bottom and her mini-dress even further up her legs. Opposite, a middle-aged bloke with a paunchy tummy politely averted his gaze.

She looked around. Everyone was smiling inquisitively and everyone looked faintly familiar, like faces from a dream. Or rather, a nightmare – the kind of nightmare where you think you’re on a date with Adonis, but you’re actually at some weird family gathering, and the family name is Addams.

She shot another look at the paunchy middle-aged man. He reminded her of someone. She briefly tried to place him. He was probably one of her old, pervy uncles. They all looked the same and she always blanked them out. And hadn’t her mum said one of them was local?

Next to Pervy Uncle was a dumpy, mumsy woman, on the verge of a panic attack. Her eyes were locked on the macaroons.

Next to Dumpy Mum was Spinster Aunt: sensible shoes; old-fashioned make-up; probably born with a rod up her arse. Definitely not someone to get stuck next to.

Sitting demurely next to Spinster Aunt was a bland blonde in a pastel round-neck.
Smug Cousin
, Roxy decided. She’d probably been indoors studying for her next piano grade while Roxy had been out climbing trees and showing the boys her knickers. Another one to be avoided.

She wasn’t sure who the macaroon-wielding weirdo on her left was. The black sheep of the family, probably. Maybe he was Pervy Uncle’s son. Actually, the more she looked at him, the more she was sure she’d seen him before. Probably loitering in the park, or on
Crimewatch
.

Who the hell are these people?
she wondered. And then a thought struck her. Surely they couldn’t be …?
No!
Woody
was a pop star! OK, so he was a pop-star-turned-window-cleaner and seemed to have stuck all the trappings of wealth and fame into storage, but he
was
a pop star, nevertheless. Didn’t pop stars hang out with supermodels and Formula One drivers? They certainly didn’t hang out with this lot. Surely they couldn’t be Woody’s …
friends?
Roxy began to panic. Where were Woody’s
celebrity
friends?
OK!
magazine would never shell out for wedding shots if the congregation was made up of this lot.

She accepted a large glass of wine from Woody and watched unhappily as he sat between Smug Cousin and Spinster Aunt. She tried not to frown – not good for the wrinkles. Besides, she liked to think she was a lager-half-full kind of girl. OK, so the night wasn’t going as planned, but winning Woody would be like scoring the double rollover – career and love life sorted in one scoop. And Roxy wasn’t the type to wimp out at a hurdle. Hurdles were there to be jumped over. Why else did she wear such high heels? She took a big slug of wine and sat back.

‘All I’m saying,’ Spinster Aunt declared frostily, in a voice that sounded uncomfortably familiar, ‘is that a good man’s career was ruined – and his family nearly destroyed.’

Dumpy Mum was looking red-faced.

‘Well, that was hardly Sue’s fault,’ Pervy Uncle jumped to her defence.

‘Let’s not pretend she didn’t play her part,’ said Spinster Aunt.

‘I never meant …’ Dumpy Mum began forlornly.

‘She was
nineteen
, Cressida!’ reasoned Pervy Uncle. ‘Just a child – innocent in the ways of the world.’

‘Innocent? I don’t think Deirdre Hunt would put it like that, Terence – do you?’ Spinster Aunt Cressida replied tartly.

‘Sue was just as much a victim as Deirdre Hunt. If you want to blame anyone, blame him – blame Hunt, blame the papers, God knows, they deserve it!’

There were grunts of agreement from the room.

‘You can’t help who you fall in love with,’ Macaroon Man offered helpfully. ‘Sue was obviously deeply in love.’

‘And she’s had to live with the fallout for years!’ said Pervy Uncle Terence. ‘The Hunts had each other. She had no one.’

‘Not even a career,’ added Smug Cousin. Roxy looked at her in surprise. It wasn’t the kind of support she’d have expected from goody-two-shoes.

‘I did get married, once …’ Dumpy Mum Sue said quietly, her eyes fixed in her lap. ‘To Jeff. It didn’t last. He wanted Suzi, but I just wanted to be Sue. I wanted to put all the Suzi stuff behind me.’

‘See?’ Terence insisted. ‘The Hunts weren’t the only ones to have their marriage ruined!’

‘They didn’t split up. They’re still together,’ whispered Sue.

‘Hunt was a good man,’ Spinster Aunt Cressida said plainly. ‘He had a lot to give this country – he was passionate …’

Macaroon Man stifled a laugh.

‘He had a great career in politics ahead of him,’ Cressida increased her volume, drowning out Macaroon Man’s dissent.

‘And it was all ruined by her!’ She glared at Sue. Sue was visibly shaking.

‘Politicians aren’t allowed to make mistakes,’ intervened Woody. ‘If a pop star has a fling, it’s not a problem. But if a politician has one, the papers punish him – and whoever it was he was seeing. It doesn’t matter to the papers that the politician might be in an unhappy marriage, or that the woman he had the affair with may or may not be the love of his life.’

‘Loads of MPs have affairs,’ said Smug Cousin kindly.

‘Well, don’t they say power’s the greatest aphrodisiac?’ Woody smiled.

There was an awkward silence as everyone looked at Cressida. Roxy looked too. She was beginning to recognise Spinster Aunt. All the talk about power was stirring her memory.

Macaroon Man cleared his throat.

‘So, you never managed to get your career back on track, Sue?’ he asked.

Dumpy Mum shook her head sadly.

‘I went to castings, but everyone just whispered and stared. They said I was too sleazy for the modelling jobs I went for. I couldn’t even get catalogue work any more.’

‘Yes, well, we all have our cross to bear,’ Cressida said sharply. ‘And yours came with a rich husband and a house in Lavender Heath. And it was thirty years ago, for heaven’s sake. Isn’t it time you stopped feeling sorry for yourself?’

‘You don’t know what it’s like to know everyone’s seen you naked,’ Sue protested tearfully. ‘People I’ve never met know
things,
private things
, about me. It’s not like I
sold
the pictures. I didn’t choose to expose myself, like a … a page three girl! For years I couldn’t even buy a loaf of bread without someone leering, or shouting that horrible name the tabloids called me.’

‘Hah! I know what
that’s
like.’ Macaroon Man said ruefully. Roxy peered at him in surprise. Now she came to think about it, he did look
very
familiar.

‘Bloody tabloids,’ Pervy Uncle Terence added venomously.

‘I had dreams.’ Sue’s voice had gone wobbly. ‘I was going to branch out – get into acting. But instead I got labelled as her: as Suzi. Every schoolboy in the land knew me as … well … as,
you know
 …’

Despite herself, Roxy was fascinated.

‘Couldn’t you just work with it? Play it to your advantage with a kiss-and-tell, or a sexy underwear campaign?’ she asked.

‘She’s not that kind of lady!’ Pervy Uncle retorted.

‘Yes, well, you just need to retrain,’ Cressida said simply. ‘Do something useful with your life. The past is past. We, of all people, should know that.’ She looked around the room meaningfully. Roxy noticed the atmosphere suddenly change. Everyone looked at their laps, or started contemplating Woody’s walls.

A moment passed. Roxy put down her wine glass.

‘What do you mean … “we of all people”?’ she asked.

She looked at Woody. He smiled at her in the same way her teachers used to when they wanted her to work something out.

She looked at the others, her eyes travelling from face to
face. Now she thought about it, maybe they
all
looked familiar. The more she clocked Pervy Uncle, the more she felt sure she’d seen him before. He definitely wasn’t one of her actual uncles, yet she had a weird feeling he’d been in her house – in her living room. And Macaroon Man was looking more familiar with every glance. Maybe she’d met him, drunk, at a party. Christ – they’d probably snogged!

Sue didn’t ring any bells, but she’d obviously been famous once – she’d shown them the scrapbook to prove it.