Could It Be I'm Falling in Love? (9 page)

To her surprise, Roxy looked disappointed. Sue felt a stab
of shame at her lie. But she wasn’t used to visitors and, besides, how had Roxy known where she lived?

‘No probs.’ Roxy grinned. ‘Can’t stand between a woman and her retail therapy. So, anyway, I thought you might like this.’

Something shot out from the depths of Roxy’s Day-Glo muff. Sue peered at it uncertainly.

‘It won’t bite!’ Roxy laughed. ‘It’s a DVD, a fitness DVD.
My
fitness DVD, actually.’ She shook the box. And sure enough, there on the cover, was a Lycra-clad Roxy. But this Roxy looked different to the Roxy on her doorstep; she was younger, curvier, less blonde. A pale-blue gem glinted in her tummy button.

‘Oh …’ Sue exclaimed, not quite knowing what to say.

‘You’ve probably sussed I’m a no-bullshit kind of girl, so, straight up – if this DVD was bollocks, I’d say so. But it’s not. I got shed loads of letters from women saying they’d lost whole dress sizes doing it. Now, I know what you’re thinking …’

Sue looked at her, bewildered. She barely knew what she was thinking herself! She could see her frightened reflection in Roxy’s mirrored sunglasses. She tried to relax her grip on the front door.

‘… you didn’t have me down as a fitness fanatic. And you’re right, I’m not. Don’t get me wrong – I love all the kit. In the run-up to Christmas you’d have to chisel me out of my gym clobber – not that I actually go to the gym – it’s just to give the paps the chance to get me for all the ‘Celebs’ New Year Shape Up’ articles for January. But you probably don’t read those kinds of magazines …’

‘Oh, but I
love
those kinds of magazines!’ Sue gushed. She tried to remember if she’d ever seen Roxy in them. She’d have to check her back issues.

‘Honestly, though–’ Roxy stepped a little closer – ‘I don’t know my arse from my elbow about aerobics, but every Tom, Dick and Harry was putting out a fitness DVD back then, and a production company made me an offer. Never look a gift horse in the mouth – that’s what I say! Anyway, don’t let the fact that it’s
my
DVD put you off. There’s a real instructor doing the workout with me and she really knows her onions.’

There was a pause. Sue took the DVD. For a moment she thought Roxy was going to offer to sign it.

‘So, great meeting last night.’ Roxy suddenly changed the subject. ‘Woody’s very, um …
inclusive.’

Sue felt a surge of relief. She hadn’t got a clue about fitness DVDs and onions, but Woody’s meetings were something she
did
know about.

‘Woody’s wonderful,’ she told her. ‘The heart and soul of the village.’

Roxy’s sunglasses pumped up and down enthusiastically. ‘Yeah, he seems very … caring.’

‘Oh, yes, yes he is! He’s always there to help. He’s so giving – not just to me. He’s giving with all of us.’

‘And what girl doesn’t love a giver?’ Roxy replied – an eyebrow shooting up above the sunglasses. Sue paused, confused. Had she said something funny? But then Roxy swooped even closer, invading her personal space.

‘But I’ll be honest, Sue; I was expecting the evening to be a bit more – you know –
one-to-one.’

Sue blinked. Roxy was studying her expression. Sue knew she was being prodded, but she didn’t know what for.

‘He’s very community-minded,’ she mumbled. ‘None of us would know each other if it wasn’t for him. We were practically neighbours, but had never even spoken.’

‘Uh huh.’

‘He’s always trying to get us to socialise.’

‘With him?’

‘As a group, of course! He says we’ve all moped on our own too long; that it’s not good for our …’ She stopped. Roxy was looking peculiar, like she was just about to burst.

‘Oh, bugger it.’ Roxy exhaled loudly and propped her sunglasses on her head. ‘Sod the soft soap. Come on, Sue – you know what I’m getting at!’

‘I …’ Sue didn’t have the teeniest, foggiest idea.

‘Why didn’t Woody make a move on me?’ Roxy demanded. ‘I mean, Woody’s
Woody
, right? And, you’ve got to admit, I pulled out all the stops with that dress.’

‘Oh, yes! You looked wonderf—’

‘Foxy Roxy
, the papers call me! You don’t get a nickname like that if you’re a minger.’

‘No, of course n—’

‘He’s supposed to be
The Woodeniser
, for Christ’s sake! Four hundred quid, that dress cost. It’s so bloody tight, it makes my eyes water. One sneeze and I’d be done for indecent
exposure. I didn’t bloody breathe out from the moment I left my house.’

‘It’s just that … well, the group … we …’

‘You know – he’s known where I live for ages. He invited me round to his place the very first chance he got. The tabloids said he and Petra split up yonks ago, so I just don’t get it. He’s obviously
interested!
I thought we were up for some … you know …
fun!’

Sue balked. She wasn’t
that
out of touch. She knew what Roxy had been after last night. Nobody wore a dress
that
short without being on the lookout for some how’s-your-father.

‘But,’ Sue tried to explain, ‘I expect he has
that
kind of fun with …’

‘With …?’

‘Well, with Jennifer, of course!’

‘Jennifer?’ Roxy froze.

‘Yes, Jennifer: Woody’s girlfriend! Surely you saw all the photos? He’s got one on every shelf.’

And suddenly, like a soufflé that had been removed from the oven too early, Roxy deflated. Her sunglasses dropped back on to her nose.

‘No,’ she muttered flatly. ‘I must’ve missed them.’

Sue instantly felt bad. Roxy was looking depressed. Surely she’d known about Jennifer?
Everyone
knew about Jennifer! ‘She’s gorgeous,’ she added awkwardly, probably making things worse. ‘And very dedicated to her job.’

Sue was just wondering what to say next when there was a ruckus from the street. Three vans pulled up and a dozen
men in anoraks clambered out, noisily clattering stepladders and tripods behind them.

‘Bloody hell – paps!’ Roxy snapped back to life. She hunched her shoulders to shield her from the street. ‘What the hell are they doing here?’

Sue frowned and retreated further behind her door. ‘He must be in the papers again,’ she whispered. ‘They only come when there’s a story.’

‘What story? Who’s in the papers?’

‘Thingamabob –
the actor.’
It always made Sue nervous when the paparazzi arrived. She wished she’d planted one of those really tall hedges that people complained about. She frowned. ‘But I thought he’d given up acting. My magazine said he was turning his back on it all, that he hated show business and was retiring to count his money and grow a beard.’

‘Austin Jones?’
Roxy snorted loudly. ‘What? Austin Jones lives
here?’

Sue cowered in case the photographers heard and looked over.

‘Sometimes,’ she whispered. ‘You never see him, though. It’s such a big place he’s got.’

‘I can’t believe it!’ Roxy marvelled loudly, staring openly at the photographers as they assembled their kits and staked their claim on the pavement.
‘Austin Jones lives in Lavender Heath
. Christ; I need to put more slap on.’ She looked back at Sue sharply. ‘For work. Publicity shots – new show I’m in.’

‘You’re working? I just thought … what with Woody bringing you to the—’

‘I’m busy, busy, busy, me – phone never stops ringing!’ Roxy turned, and then, just as she was hurrying away, she stopped. ‘Hey, Sue; you ever thought about getting a fringe?’

Sue’s mouth fell open.

‘Just a soft one, sweeping to the side? And wearing your hair up at the back? … You’ve got great cheekbones. A fringe would show them off, give your face some drama.’

And then she was gone.

Sue slowly closed the door. In a daze, she carried the DVD into the lounge and placed it next to the television. She drifted to the mirror above the fireplace and looked numbly at her reflection. A doughy woman stared back – dull skinned and heavy haired. Roxy couldn’t be right. Surely a fringe couldn’t change
that
much …

… Could it?

With stiff hands, she tried to scoop her hair up and imagine.

To:
Roxy Squires

From:
BBC Three, New Programming Department

Dear Ms Squires,

Thank you for your recent email outlining some new programme ideas for BBC3.

Whilst we enjoyed your ideas, we’re afraid they’re not in keeping with our remit for freshness and innovation. Perhaps you might consider pitching them to a channel with an older demographic … Watch, perhaps? Vintage TV? Or even Yesterday …?

‘Bollocks!’

It had been a tough day and Roxy was trackie-bottomed up. Sprawled on her sofa with the TV remote, her inner thighs ached.

The day had started well enough. OK, so she hadn’t woken wrapped in the muscly arms and satin sheets of the former hottest pop star on the planet, but the night hadn’t been a complete disaster. Victory was a matter of time. Woody might have been trying to hide it in front of the others, but she was as Sure as ladies’ deodorant he was desperate to jump her bones.

But then Sue had dropped the clanger.

Roxy wasn’t the kind of girl who stole another woman’s man. She’d long since decided that if she was going to have sleepless nights it would be because she was clubbing, not racked with guilt over nabbing someone else’s boyfriend. She didn’t believe in God, but she did believe in karma and it was a well-known fact that, if you did bad stuff, karma got its own back and bit you on the arse. If you nicked another girl’s bloke,
karma got a different girl –
an even hotter girl
– to nick him back off you. It was just simpler all round to stick to the blokes who were free.

But with Woody …

Arghh!
With Woody it was going to be a hard rule to follow.

Roxy hadn’t fancied anyone for ages, but now she had the chance to get it on with the biggest crush of her life, fate had got a cob on and shoved him out of reach. It wasn’t fair – she was sure Woody wanted her. Attraction was usually mutual, and her nips had been so busy perking they were pretty close to knackered. She and Woody would make a perfect couple. They were from the same world, a million miles from Lavender Heath. Theirs was a world of backstage passes, front-page exclusives and open-sesame red velvet ropes. Whatever the saintly Jennifer did for a living (which was obviously something boring, else Roxy would’ve read about her in the papers), it couldn’t begin to come close.

‘Bollocks!’ Roxy shouted her verdict at each passing channel. And that was another thing that was annoying her. There was so much shit on TV –
and she wasn’t presenting it!
Her finger paused over the remote as she watched a few seconds of the latest celebrity stunt show. Presenting this stuff was as easy as breathing – she could do it a million times better than the leggy bit of fluff pouting into camera. Besides, she
knew
the producer of this show; she’d worked with him, years back. They’d partied together – shared a few lines in the gents at Madame Jojo’s. Sharing powder in a nightclub toilet was the media equivalent of a blood brothers’ cut; she should have
presented
all
his programmes after that. But he wouldn’t even take her calls now.

Roxy tossed the remote away. There was only one thing for it … she needed to get pissed.

She eased herself off the sofa, limped into the kitchen and opened the fridge. Six pints of milk and a fat-free yoghurt stared back. Damn – she could’ve sworn she had a bottle of white. Undeterred, she pulled on a poncho, picked up her iPod and headed out to the offy.

Stuffing in her headphones, Roxy hit shuffle. And Blondie’s ‘Rip Her to Shreds’ immediately filled her ears. She hit forward. Debbie’s girl-on-girl anger was replaced by familiar sticky-sweet chimes.

‘Argh!’

Roxy crushed her thumbs into her iPod. That was the last thing she wanted to hear – Woody crooning about falling in love. She’d never have bought his back catalogue if she’d known he was girlfriended-up. She’d a mind to demand her money back.

Stiffly, she walked in silence, rueing her day of bad luck. God, her legs hurt. She hadn’t exercised in yonks. But when the photographers had turned up this morning the opportunity had been too good to miss. There were paps –
real, live paps
– in her village. She didn’t have to schlep all the way to London to throw herself in front of a lens – there were a dozen, two dozen, a minute from her house! She’d hurtled back home and prepared an outfit.

Or rather, several outfits.

For her first spurious trip to the farmers’-market store (Lavender Heath was too posh for a common corner shop) she’d worn the classic off-duty LA-celeb look of jeans, white T-shirt, sloppy scarf and shades. But that hadn’t even raised a glance from the paps who were intently studying the ornate iron gates at the end of Austin Jones’ drive. So next she’d tried some vintage boho, before channelling VB in something tailored and torturously tight. The stakes were then upped with some fashion-forward Cheryl, before assets were maxed a la
Hollyoaks
-starlet. Finally, Roxy went the whole hog with some full-on Lady Gaga. Six unwanted pints of milk later, and still nothing! Eventually she’d dug out her roller skates. Normally she didn’t resort to these until summer, when she’d take a trip to London and spend a day skating around St James’ Park in microscopic knickers and a short, floaty skirt. That had worked several years in a row. Seven years back, she’d even made page three of the
Mail!
But even the combination of roller boots and a Lycra all-in-one (and then later – desperately later – roller boots, microscopic knickers and the short, floaty skirt) had failed to dent Austin’s paps. Eventually, when she’d skated eight whole loops of the village and her thighs had been on the point of collapse, she’d given up, gone home and sat on a radiator to thaw out.