Could It Be I'm Falling in Love? (17 page)

‘Well, well, well!’ a voice suddenly said behind him. ‘They told me you were my window cleaner but I thought they were taking the piss.’

Woody turned, and his ladder turned with him, almost knocking Britain’s most successful Hollywood export in the face. A distinctly off-duty Austin Jones was leaning against the wall of his quadruple-length garage, wrapped in the world’s biggest parka, his eyes shielded from the January gloom by an expensive pair of Ray Bans. But even off-duty and unshaven, Austin was still undeniably an extraordinarily good-looking bloke.

Austin lifted a lazy finger and pushed the tip of Woody’s ladder from his nose. An eyebrow appeared above the Ray Bans.

‘Working your way down the career ladder?’

A muscle moved in Woody’s jaw. ‘Just got back from the job centre?’ he replied. ‘Or is “no more movies” just a stunt
so your agent can screw an even bigger pay packet for the comeback?’

‘No stunt,’ Austin said evenly as he contemplated his infinity pool. He stood stock-still, barely moving. ‘I’m done with Hollywood and its poison. If I had to listen to one more leading lady strop because I’ve got a bigger Winnebago, or throw a tantrum because I had four more lines …’ he trailed off darkly.

‘All those years in LA … You never got a shrink then?’

‘I’d rather shrink my own balls. No, I just packed my bags and got the hell back to Blighty. Besides, I kept hearing on the grapevine how much you were enjoying retirement. Thought I’d give it a whirl; spend some quality time with the Bentleys. No point bloody having them if I never bloody drive them. Beer?’

‘Booze and heights – not a good mix.’

‘You always were a pussy, Woods. Speaking of which … Cleaning bedroom windows the only way you get to see naked women these days?’

Woody grimaced. ‘You’re just as I remember you, Austin.’

Austin took off his Ray Bans and grinned.

A few uneasy hours and too-easy beers later, Woody cut across Austin’s immaculately trimmed lawn, through his copse of Canadian redwoods and towards the seven-foot boundary wall. He didn’t fancy heading back past the paps – too many unanswerable questions to answer. Austin had told him the best place to scale the perimeter wall and slip out, and he’d left
his ladders at the manor house. There was no point taking them home – he’d had too many beers for more cleaning. He’d needed the beers not to be angry – not that Austin had noticed. Thick-skinned as ever, Austin had been too busy hitting the vodka. In the old days, Woody would have kept up. He could remember the hazy outlines of a few lost nights they’d had together: the golden boys of British film and music drinking their way around Soho, a trail of beautiful women in their wake. But these days he couldn’t compete.

He found the section of wall Austin had mentioned, with the jutting brick that gave a good leg-up. He looked behind him and, sure enough, there was the little red light of the security camera.

‘My escape route,’ Austin had told him. ‘Clive and the security boys keep it monitored in case the scumbags cotton on and get in. Anyone so much as breathes on that section of wall and Clive’ll break their legs.’

Woody nodded at Clive, who was undoubtedly watching, put his boot on the brick and hoisted himself up. He dropped over to the other side of the wall, landing far beyond the view of the photographers, on to a quiet, country road on the outskirts of the village.

A couple of minutes later and he was almost back home. He’d just turned in to Blackberry Lane when saw it: the black Aston Martin – engine running, wheel sticking out. Only this time it was outside his house. Woody looked at it warily. This
couldn’t
be a coincidence. Was he being followed? Unlikely. Nobody cared who he used to be any more. But then, this was
the fifth time he’d seen the Aston Martin in two days. If it was just somebody new who wanted to get on his round, all they had to do was ask – even the local A-listers weren’t this melodramatic. And why the hell stake out his house? Enough was enough. He headed straight to the car for an explanation. But then the driver’s door opened, and out slid a pair of Jimmy Choo shoes and two long, orange legs.

To:
Roxy Squires

From:
Have I Got News For You
production office

Dear Miss Squires,

Thank you for your recent application to be a guest on
Have I Got News For You
.

HIGNFY
is an award-winning current affairs comedy quiz show, and as such our guests need to be either topical or amusing. And whilst your application made us laugh, unfortunately it was for all the wrong reasons.

It wasn’t until she was heading to bed that she found it. Cressida wasn’t sure how long it had been sitting there, waiting on her doormat. But she guessed it hadn’t been long. The envelope was bright pink and heavy; not the kind of post that was easily overlooked.

She put down her hot milk and bent to retrieve it. Handwritten, with no stamp, the envelope simply said ‘Cressida’. There was a little circle above the
i
. Cressida frowned. Who on earth sent post like this? Weren’t pink envelopes the domain of the under-twelves? And she didn’t know a soul who’d circle-dot their
i
’s. Intrigued, she ripped it open. The letter inside was lilac.

Cressida frowned again, harder this time. And then she laughed.

‘Barking!’ she declared to the hallway. And she carried her hot milk up to bed.

11.30am @foxyroxy

#ROXYSAYS: The key to being a celeb = knowing when to keep your big trap shut. Nothing = more B-list than boasting about your A-list mates.

11.31am @foxyroxy

eg If BradnAnge invite u 4 dinner, don’t blab that Brad sprinkles n tinkles! No one hits Celeb Siberia faster than a B-list Ms Indi Screet!

11.40am @foxyroxy

PS – Not that BradnAnge did … or Brad would … but you get my point.

It was the rarest of moments: a twinless Saturday morning. Simon and Linda cuddled up beneath their king-sized duvet after an unscheduled 11am ‘nap’.

‘So,’ Linda casually cross-examined him as she nestled down into his chest, ‘does this unscheduled burst of libido have anything to do with the group’s new blonde?’

‘Roxy?’ Simon did his best to sound innocent. ‘How did you know about her?’ He hoped his wife hadn’t sensed him tense up.

‘I bumped into Cressida at the library. She told me about your new recruit. She couldn’t remember her name, or what she did, but she gave me a rough description and I know Roxy Squires owns a house in the village. You don’t need to be a brunette to put two and two together,’ Linda added dryly. When Simon didn’t answer, she lifted her head to inspect his expression. ‘So?’

‘God, no!’ Simon exclaimed vehemently, making a point to meet his wife’s eye. ‘How could you even think that?’

Linda arched an eyebrow. ‘That four-bottles-of-cava night?’

‘Oh,
that!’
Simon coloured at the memory – from back at
the start of their marriage – of an extremely drunken evening of negotiating the three free sex passes they’d grant each other, and the megastars on whom they could spend them. ‘God, that feels like a lifetime ago.’

‘It was. Pre-kids. So why didn’t you tell me she’d joined?’

‘I forgot?’

‘Yeah, right.’

Simon tried a little diversion. ‘Who were my other free passes?’

‘Naomi Campbell and Jennifer Aniston. Like
that
was ever going to happen.’

‘It might have done! Me and Jennifer could have been cast in the same movie; Naomi could have presented me with my Best Male Actor BAFTA gong. Besides, weren’t yours Bill Clinton, Robert Redford and David Dimbleby?’

‘I was in my older-man phase.’

‘Older? At least my three had pulses.’

‘All of which is a great smokescreen for my original question …’

‘What question?’

‘About Roxy!’ Linda watched him closely. ‘About whether you having the hots for me today is some kind of frustrated transference of you having the hots for her. It’s all right – I’m not complaining. We’re married, we’ve got teenagers: it’s a miracle we have sex at all – but, you’ve got to admit, you
did
used to get frisky on Fridays after her show …
and
it’s not every day you get to meet one of the three fantasy babes your wife’s given you permission to shag.’

Simon sat up in bed.

‘Linda, I love you,’ he said solemnly. ‘I’ve not looked at another woman since we met.’

‘I know,’ his wife admitted. ‘I’m not saying you’d actually
do
anything. But she
was
kind of gorgeous, in a down-the-pub way.’

Simon frowned. ‘Yeah,
was
. She
was
. She’s not now.’

‘Oh, come off it – she must only be thirty-five. That’s about a decade younger than Jennifer Aniston, and look how gnarly she is!’

‘No, it’s not that. She’s still … well, you know … good looking. But she’s just a bit …’

‘What?’

‘Young.’

‘Young?’
Linda roared with laughter. ‘Since when was
that
ever a problem for a man?’

‘She still goes to nightclubs, Lind! And has hangovers – and wears short skirts and swears and chews gum.’

‘She sounds terrible. She sounds exactly the same as when you fancied her.’

‘She is.’ Simon was unable to argue. He lay back down and thought for a moment. ‘She hasn’t changed at all. But I’ve changed – my tastes have changed.’

Linda snuggled back into his chest.

‘Well, you no longer play your Steps CD,’ she teased. But Simon was too pensive to notice.

‘Roxy’s good on paper,’ he reasoned, ‘but I don’t want a woman who can drink the bar dry. Or dances on the table, or can name every premier-league player. I don’t want a woman who can out-bloke me; life’s emasculating enough.’

‘Hey, you’re all man from where I’m lying.’ Linda gave him a nudge.

Simon kissed her and hugged her tightly. ‘You know, if Robert Redford knocked on our door right now, I bet you wouldn’t fancy him.’

‘You offering odds on that?’

‘No, really, Lind; you wouldn’t – I mean, Redford’s all very good in principle – ranch; film festival; still got all his own teeth … But the bottom line is, he’s
Robert
bloody
Redford!
You don’t actually know him. He’s bound to have all sorts of issues.’

‘Oh, I don’t know …’

‘And it’s the same with Roxy,’ he declared. ‘OK, so I used to fancy her on TV – and yes, she’s still hot and fun and bubbly. But I don’t want fun and bubbly any more.’

Linda shot Simon
the look
.

‘No, ravishingly beautiful defence lawyers are more my thing now,’ Simon added hurriedly. Fifteen years of marriage had taught him that speed and extreme flattery were the only appropriate responses to
the look
. ‘I don’t want to drink in trendy bars with trendy people. I want cosy nights in with the mother of my children – pyjamas and a bottle of red. In fact, you can take back those free passes and burn them – I won’t be needing them any more.’

Linda smiled, contented. ‘Maybe you’re right about Redford,’ she conceded. ‘They’re probably not really his teeth.’ She sighed in exaggerated resignation. ‘I guess we’ve just got old, Drennan.’

‘Older
, Lind.’ Simon kissed her head and hugged her. ‘Just older.’