Could It Be I'm Falling in Love? (7 page)

And Spinster Aunt: she had that
voice
. Roxy was sure she’d heard it before. She remembered the lecturing tone.

Roxy looked at Smug Cousin. She didn’t recognise her at all, but maybe she was too bland for Roxy’s radar.

And then there was Woody. Well, she definitely knew who he was.
Everyone
knew who he was.

‘Are you …?’ Her heart suddenly quickened. ‘Are you all …
famous
, or something?’

Her question hung in the air. Her skin tingled with excitement. Could they
really
be celebrities? Could all these
ordinary
famous people have been plodding around Lavender Heath under her nose?

‘Not exactly,’ Macaroon Man replied.

They all swapped glances. Roxy looked at Woody wildly.

‘No, we’re not famous,’ he smiled. ‘We’re has-beens!’

‘Hanging on to the fact that we
used
to be,’ Sue added.

‘I couldda been a contender!’ Macaroon Man joked limply.

Roxy’s mouth fell open. Slowly she looked from person to person and a series of pennies began to drop.

‘I
know
you!’ she jabbed her finger at Macaroon Man. ‘You’re Sick Nick!’

‘No, I’m Simon Drennan,’ he corrected. ‘I’m an actor who used to play the morally flawed character, Nick Fletcher, in the television soap opera
Down Town.’

‘You were in
Downton?’
Roxy looked at him, impressed. Now she thought about it, she could see him in a bow tie. He hadn’t been one of the posh lot, but she was sure he’d been one of the servants.

‘Not
Downton Abbey,’
Terence sniggered, enjoying the moment. ‘Simon was in
Down Town
. Not quite the same thing.’

‘And you’re …’ Roxy’s finger moved to Pervy Uncle. ‘You’re that weatherman off the telly. The one who made everyone bankrupt.’

‘Say hello to Tornado Terry,’ Simon smirked, enjoying a swift revenge.

‘A simple Terence would suffice,’ Terence said stiffly.

‘And you …’ Roxy’s finger swivelled round to Sue. ‘I didn’t get it at first, but you used to be Sug—’

‘Don’t say it!’
Sue’s hands flew up to her face.

‘And you’re …’ Roxy lingered over Spinster Aunt, hoping someone would jump in and explain.

‘Cressida Cunningham,’ Spinster Aunt told her crisply. ‘Former Member of Parliament for Biddington Borders, and Secretary of State for Work and Pensions.’

‘Bloody hell!’ Roxy exclaimed.

‘Of course, you already know Woody,’ Simon cut in. ‘Our very own used-to-be chart-topping heart-throb and former
runner-up for Rear Of The Year.’

‘I still can’t believe I got pipped to the post for that one,’ Woody laughed. ‘I should’ve demanded a recount.’

‘And …’ Roxy’s eyes settled on Smug Cousin. She looked like a total civilian. Roxy decided to take a punt. ‘I’m sorry – I don’t do telly choirs.’

Smug Cousin looked up in surprise. ‘Oh no, I’m not on television; I’m Holly Childs.’ Roxy looked blank. ‘The romantic novelist? I used to be a best-seller, when I was younger. Really young, actually. But my parents always tried to keep me out of the limelight. I didn’t do any publicity. Anyway, I’ve given it all up now. Writing, I mean.’

‘Holly was a teenage prodigy,’ said Simon. ‘She wrote three best-sellers before she was sixteen. One was even made into a film –
Puppy Love.’

‘What, the Austin Jones movie? The one where he was a vet?’ Roxy blurted.

Holly nodded with a blush.

‘But that movie was massive,’ Roxy marvelled, looking at Holly with new eyes. ‘I didn’t realise it was written by a teenager. Why don’t you write any more?’

Holly looked awkward.

‘It was only ever supposed to be a bit of fun before I went to university. Besides, Mum and Dad …’ She gave a funny little shrug.

‘So there you have it,’ grinned Woody. ‘Welcome to our circle of used-to-bes! I thought you might find us of help.’

But Roxy was still looking at Holly. Maybe she wasn’t so
bland, after all. She was young and thin and blonde – and she had a gap between her teeth like Madonna! All she needed was a sexy makeover and they could hit the town together – Roxy and her writer bezzie mate. It was about time she got herself some gravitas. Maybe she could get herself some glasses – work the intellectual look.

‘Yeah, come on – join us.’ Simon gave a mock rallying-call. ‘We’re a flock of failures!’

Or maybe there was something she could do with Simon, Roxy wondered. The more you looked at him, the less you noticed his nose. Besides, wasn’t the ordinary look ‘in’? It was certainly doing the business for O’Dowd. And didn’t that Gandy bloke have a big hooter? Maybe she could phone her TV contacts, suggest a drama this time – some kind of buddy vehicle with her and Simon as cops.

‘They say that everyone’s famous for fifteen minutes.’ Holly was talking. ‘The problem is that those fifteen minutes are dazzling. And when they’re over, real life just seems grey.’

‘Fame’s an insatiable mistress.’ Terence’s voice drifted over. ‘She takes you to the highest summit and then hangs you out to dry.’

‘It’s tough,’ somebody deadpanned.

‘It’s an adjustment,’ another voice added kindly.

‘I’m worried about you, Rox.’ Woody tried to get her attention. But Roxy’s mind was already elsewhere … flitting somewhere between his bedroom and a new plan. ‘You’re sleeping late, partying hard. Are you sure you’re not chasing something that’s already gone?’

‘A young, fit woman like you …’ Cressida’s voice was muffled, as though under water. ‘There are plenty of jobs you could do … It’s what you do when the cameras
aren’t
rolling that really matters in life.’

Suddenly Roxy noticed that everyone was studying her closely. The whole room seemed to be waiting for her to reply. She looked from person to person, barely able to contain her new excitement.

‘Absorockinlutely!’ she erupted in glee.
This
was what she needed – what she’d been looking for! This group of minor celebs and fame-recluses was her salvation – her revitalisation – her rebirth into the world. This was her big ticket back, the reason she kept subscribing to
Spotlight
, the mission she hadn’t even realised she’d been seeking. Cressida was right, what you did when the cameras weren’t rolling really
did
matter! And this lot had got it all wrong. It wasn’t
them
who could help her – it was
her
who could help
them
. And by pushing them back into the spotlight, she’d be pushing herself back too. They’d
all
be winners! Her heart raced and her eyes sparkled.

She, Roxy Squires, was going to make them all famous again.

Sue lay in bed and bleakly tried to calculate the best tea-biscuit combination for a mood-boost. Redwood and digestives? Earl Grey and a Viennese whirl? Or maybe builders’ tea? Yes, that was probably the way to go. Builders’ tea with toast and marmite. Even
she
knew you shouldn’t have biscuits for breakfast.

But she didn’t get out of bed and boil the kettle. Instead, she burrowed deeper beneath her duvet and surrendered to her maudlin mood. It wasn’t her fault – it was all the raking-up-the-past from last night. She suddenly remembered a game she played as a little girl: If you were an animal what would you be? Her friends had jostled to be the first to bag ‘pony’. But the young Suzi had never wanted to be a horse, or a kitten, or a bunny … She wanted to be a swan. Swans were graceful. Swans were a perfect snow-white. Her friends had called her silly; who wanted to swim in circles in a dirty, smelly pond? But Suzi was not dissuaded. And beneath fifteen togs of feather, Sue knew Suzi had been right. Didn’t swans mate for life? And wasn’t that what she’d done when she’d fallen for
Hunt? Yes, she’d married Jeff … but, looking back, was it really
love
she’d felt for her husband? Or relief at the armour he’d provided? A ring … An arm … A presence to deflect the attention …

Sue couldn’t help herself … she let herself meander down memory lane …

Hunt.

Hunt.

Everyone called him that. His name was Rupert, but nobody used it – not even his wife, he’d laughed. He’d been an energetic backbencher, not quite in cabinet, older than she was – an ancient forty-two. But Suzi hadn’t noticed his grey temples, or the lines at the corners of his eyes. When he’d turned his charm upon her over drinks at a magazine party, a nineteen-year-old Suzi (only a year out of the suburbs) had felt herself teeter and fall. She wasn’t supposed to fancy older men; she definitely wasn’t supposed to fancy politicians; and she absolutely definitely wasn’t supposed to fancy married politicians. In fact, she wasn’t supposed to be at the party at all. A friend – a fellow model – had talked her into coming. They were going out dancing, but popped in for a laugh. Having no invitation wasn’t a problem for two young, pretty faces in short skirts, and they were soon sipping free drinks and hobnobbing with London’s luminati. Suzi had chatted to a photographer, an actor and a multi-millionaire entrepreneur, but when Hunt had smiled at her across the room – before striding over to introduce himself and shake her hand – something in her molecules altered. She liked to think
she’d put up some resistance, that she’d struggled with her morals before freefalling into love with an older, married man. But the truth was, from that very first electrifying handshake, she was smitten: hopelessly bedazzled by his elegance, worldliness and smile.

But, eight months and one cabinet promotion later, scandal broke.

Sue curled her duvet more tightly around her. She didn’t like remembering what had happened next.

The minute the affair hit the papers she became public property. One morning she’d been Suzi, an under-the-radar model; a pretty, penniless thing you might have seen running down the pavement for a bus … But the next day she was
her
– the nickname Hunt had given her. Thanks to a break-in and a chatty, tipsy friend, suddenly the whole world knew the very personal details of what had passed between them: the dates they’d been on, the intimacies they’d whispered, the moments of lovemaking they’d shared. Every little aspect was reported, distorted and made to sound dirty … A sleazy bonk for him and, for her, a scheming piece of sluttism to boost a fledgling career. Nobody thought for a moment that what she and Hunt had was love.

Of course, Hunt scarpered. He retreated back to his constituency and his wife. They met the press together with matching stiff upper lips. His arm around his wife, he apologised for his ‘serious error of judgement’. He lost his job, but kept his family – and the eighteenth-century manor house with wisteria around the door. A few months later he reemerged
to work in business – before emerging again, years later, beaming from the pages of
Hello
.

But Suzi didn’t have a place to run to – no private country house with blossom by the door. Her friends thought it a hoot; Suzi was the hottest girl in town – they could go dancing wherever they wanted now. But it wasn’t funny for Suzi. Her heart had been broken but she had no privacy to cry. She had rent to pay, castings to attend, a life to try to get on with. She ran the gauntlet of public transport alone.

But, of course, life wasn’t how it had been. Her every move was trailed by a pack of hungry cameras; her castings interrupted by journalists on the scent. Now she was invited to every kind of party, but parties weren’t any fun. Because once her private life was public, the public felt free to judge. Normal rules of politeness went out of the window. People she’d never met, never spoken to, would stand nearby and appraise her. Because she’d been in the papers, her feelings, it seemed, were fair game. They forgot she could still see and hear – or ignored the fact that she could.

Men would lurk close by, making suggestive comments before mentally removing her clothes. They didn’t have to imagine much; they were already well acquainted with her naked body thanks to the photos stolen from Hunt’s constituency safe (the only place Deirdre wouldn’t find them). A few drinks later and the lecherous approaches would start.

The women looked at her differently, too. To them she was something dangerous – a home-wrecker, a husband-stealer, a purveyor of dark sexual tricks. And so they would collect behind
their wine glasses, making sure their judgements could be heard. Suzi was fatter/scrawnier/tartier than in pictures. Her face was hard, her bust overrated and her motives despicably selfish. Not once did anyone consider that Hunt may have been her ‘one’.

Suzi was suddenly famous in a way she’d never wanted to be. More than famous … a fascination. Was she
really
that beautiful? Had she
really
bewitched the straight-laced politician into a frenzy of sexual madness? Were her …
you knows
 … really as good as
that
name? Everybody wanted to drink where she drank – to say they’d been at the same party. Men wanted to be with her, not for friendship or romance, but to boast about the conquest and parade her to their friends. Jeff was just the same. He was only different because he hung around longer. The thrill of displaying her at the races didn’t wear off until they’d married. But he didn’t want
her
– he wanted Suzi. He wanted to bask in Suzi’s notoriety, to let the world know
he
was the one who got to fondle those famous assets, to slip between those famous thighs. And when the thrill had passed and Jeff had disappeared with the next image-boosting arm-accessory, Sue decided it was time for Suzi to disappear too. Without Jeff, she didn’t have to go out. She’d already given up on modelling, and she definitely didn’t want to go dancing with her friends. She wasn’t even sure she had friends any more. Scandal seemed to have melted them away, replacing them with party-going acquaintances – gossipfuelled fun-types who whisked you up, whirled you around and cosied up for ‘one for the album’. But then they’d spin
off to find the next hot thing, blabbing to the press on the way. Sue had had enough of the press. She’d had enough of everyone. She just wanted to shut her door.