Could It Be I'm Falling in Love? (22 page)

‘I’m fine. I was just …’

He hurried back, took her face in his hands and scrutinised her carefully. His face was very close. Roxy stifled a whimper. But then Woody pulled back, picked up her wrist and felt her pulse.

‘Whoa!’ he jumped at its vigour.

‘… jogging,’ she finished lamely.

‘Jogging?’ Woody paused for a moment. ‘Well, that explains the sweating and shortness of breath. But I still think we need to get you to hospital. Your whole body’s jaundiced.’

‘I’m just hot.’

‘No, Rox, you look …’

She hoped the next words out of his mouth would be ‘attractively tousled’.

‘… like you’re having organ failure. Roxy, you’re
mustard!
And not Colman’s … I mean on-the-turn, call-health-and-safety stuff! I don’t care what you say – I’m definitely phoning an ambulance.’

‘Wait!’ Roxy quickly weighed up which was the larger indignity: an ambulance, or telling the truth? ‘I’m not jaundiced. I had a run-in with a bottle of Fake Bake.’

Woody paused. ‘Tan?’ He looked at her lurid legs. ‘You’re telling me
this
is fake tan?’

Roxy nodded miserably.

Woody stared at her for a moment. And then he threw back his head and guffawed.

‘I know,’ she conceded. ‘I look like a traffic cone! Normally I’m really good at it, but yesterday I was a bit …’ she tailed off. For some reason she couldn’t bring herself to say ‘drunk’.

‘Roxy Squires, you’re totally bonkers!’ Woody sat on the wall beside her, still laughing. ‘God, you had me worried for a minute. I thought you were seriously ill!’

‘Just seriously orange,’ she admitted sheepishly. And then they grinned at each other. Gradually her breathing became normal.

‘Will it wash off?’

‘Nope. I’m destined to be Tango Woman for at least five days. I thought a jog might sweat out the worst of it.’

‘It was
worse?’
Woody laughed.

Roxy examined her limbs. Had it got any better? It was hard to tell.

‘I know I’m in no position to judge, being a former vain pop tart and all.’ Woody smiled. ‘But why do you bother with all the fake tan stuff, Rox? You’re already gorgeous!’

‘Yeah, right,’ she spluttered. She put her inner armour on. She wasn’t going to fall into
that
trap. Woody didn’t mean it – he was just being kind. ‘Gorgeous’ was Jennifer and her natural beauty, not Roxy and her colour-block face.

There was a pause.

‘So, I didn’t know you’re a jogger.’ Woody grinned.

‘You don’t know
everything
about me.’

‘I know you’re a bit out of practice.’

‘Bloody cheek!’

‘Want to come running with me sometime?’

‘No!’

‘Why not, Rox? Frightened you can’t hack it?’

‘No!’ But it was true. She wasn’t
frightened
she couldn’t hack it – she
knew
she couldn’t! Jogging four streets had practically killed her. But she was buggered if she was going to admit it (Jennifer probably ran marathons for fun). ‘If you must know, I’m busy. Some of us still work for a living.
Proper
work!’

‘How about six thirty?’

‘I told you; I’m working!’

Woody gave her a look. ‘What? Seven days a week?’

‘Not all seven, no …’

‘So, let’s do it; three times a week, then – just you and me.’

‘I …’ Roxy started, and then stopped. Had he really said just her and him? Now that
was
tempting – for professional reasons, of course. A private, one-to-one jog would be an excellent opportunity to discuss strategies. The breakfast meeting hadn’t worked and Woody seemed to live up his ladder. But this would be uninterrupted time for them to talk tactics, to come up with a solid set of career plans for each member of the group.

‘I can hear your brain clunking,’ Woody teased. ‘You’re thinking about it!’

‘I …’ she stalled. But on the other hand – OK, so she officially No Longer Fancied Woody, but did that mean she had to abandon
all
vanity? Did she really want him seeing her sweat? Some people looked hot when they exercised … Jessica Ennis, Davina, Cher… But Roxy just looked
hot
– like a sausage on the run from a grill.

‘Come on, Rox – I’ll make it easy. Just a few gentle laps of the village.’

She looked at him.
Oh, bollocks
, she thought.
Where’s the harm?
He’d already seen her flailing like an upside-down tortoise, the colour of a seventies condiment. And she
did
want to lose a few pounds …

‘OK,’ she heard herself mumble.

‘Great!’ he grinned. And then he scooped his bucket out of the gutter, shouldered his ladder and started striding away. ‘See you in the morning, then!’ he called.

‘The morning?’

‘For a jog!’

‘You said six thirty!’ she called out in alarm.

But he was already too far away.

There were ninety minutes to go, but Sue already felt sick. Every little bit of her was anxious. She paced from room to room, searching for a magazine to straighten as she tried to relax her nostrils enough to let in air. Of all the weeks Austin Jones could join the group, why did it have to be the week the meeting was at
her
house? She’d been dusting and polishing for days, but she was still sure something, somewhere would let her down.

Sue looked at her hands for comfort. She’d surprised herself by liking her lilac nails. She’d not worn nail polish for years – not since she was married to Jeff. It wasn’t that she had anything against polish, it was just polish reminded her of
her. She’d
always painted her nails in pretty pinks and reds. But Sue wasn’t the kind.

But still, she
did
like the lilac. And she liked it enough to try to make it last. It had been days since Roxy had given her the manicure, and those days had been hard on her hands. She’d scrubbed the baths, scoured the toilets and even bleached the grouting with a toothbrush. The rest of the rooms had
been sruced up as well – even the bedrooms, none of which anyone was likely to visit, let alone inspect for dust. But she hadn’t minded the work. Her frenzy of cleaning had been the only thing to tether her nerves. She’d worn her marigolds religiously, for fear of chipping the lilac. Some days she’d even hoovered in gloves.

Of course, a clean house was just the half of it. There were dozens of other worries to fret about too. What drinks should she offer? Should she lay out a few plates of biscuits, or organise professional catering? Normally Simon brought a tub of homemade cakes, but could she expect him to bake again? It felt rude to phone him and ask. And which room should they sit in? The living room? The study? Reception? The dining room was largest, but she didn’t normally go in it. And the conservatory was lovely by day but full of reflections at night. She was on edge enough as it was – she didn’t want to keep catching herself mirrored in the glass.

In the end she’d plumped for the kitchen. It wasn’t the biggest room, but it was where she felt most comfortable. Her table sat six, and there were stools and squashy chairs too. And it meant Roxy wouldn’t keep leaving to top up her wine. She wanted Roxy with her – she felt safer with her around.

But her biggest fear of all was the fear of Austin arriving early. What if he was the first to turn up? She’d have to talk to him all on her own! Sue’s nights had been interrupted by nightmares. She’d woken up sweating, heart racing, from the stress of having to summon up small talk interesting enough for a star. In her dreams her tongue got fatter and fatter until
it filled her mouth and she couldn’t speak at all – and the house would fall silent and Austin would look at his knees and curse Woody for persuading him to come. And Sue would cry – real tears, in her sleep – desperately longing for Woody to arrive and take over the responsibility of conversation.

Sue stopped pacing.

She’d paced all the way into her bedroom and up to her mirror. She looked at herself. She barely recognised the woman before her; her face was pinched with nerves. She didn’t want to be this lady, so pale and frightened in her big, black clothes. Quickly, she found Roxy’s pewter scarf and put it on. And then she remembered something else Roxy had said, and scooped up her hair at the back.

And then, just as she was grappling with some bobby pins, the doorbell rang. Sue stopped breathing. He was here; Austin was here.
And he was early
. Her tongue began to thicken. Where were the others? Where were Woody, Simon and Terence? Where was Roxy with her never-ending chatter? Where was Cressida, even? She couldn’t do this on her own. Should she pretend she was out? Should she pretend she was ill?
Should she find a place to hide?

BING, BONG
.

The doorbell rang again.

And suddenly, Sue’s legs were heading for the stairs – and her hand was on the front door. She pulled back its oak protection. Her heart stopped as she looked at her doorstep and prepared to see Austin Jones.

‘Hiya!’

‘Chelle?’

‘Duh!’ Chelle swanned past Sue and into the house. Immediately she gawped at the hallway. ‘Nice place. Big!’

Sue reminded herself to breathe. She hadn’t drawn breath since upstairs with the bobby pins.

‘My ex-husband’s,’ she blurted, suddenly dizzy with relief. ‘He was big in plastics.’

Chelle’s stiletto scraped to a halt.

‘Surgery?’

Sue blinked. ‘Plastics. Just plastics.’

Chelle looked disappointed. But she resumed her nosy inspection. As her heartbeat returned to normal, Sue took in Chelle’s appearance. If possible, Chelle was even more dressed up than before. She looked beautiful – like a doll. Her hair was thick and luxuriant, and longer than Sue remembered, and her outfit was tiny and shiny. From her chandelier earrings to her jewel-studded toes, Chelle was done up to the nines. Sue had never seen anyone so glamorous … not even Roxy.

‘You’re early,’ Sue stated, and immediately blushed at her own rudeness. ‘Not that it’s a problem. In fact, what was I thinking? I haven’t even offered you a cup of tea! Would you like one? I’ve got all kinds – Darjeeling, Earl Grey, Yorkshire …’

‘Caffeine gives you cellulite,’ Chelle sniffed.

‘Oh.’

Sue didn’t know what to say – even Roxy drank tea. Without the diversion of brewing a pot, she didn’t know what to do, so she gestured Chelle into the kitchen and over to the table.

Both women sat, and Sue wedged her hands beneath her to stop them from flapping. She tried not to stare at Chelle’s eyelashes. She’d never seen lashes so thick. They looked like a ribbon of ebony velvet.

‘Yeah, I know I’m early,’ Chelle abruptly piped up. ‘But the early bird catches worms.’

Sue nodded uncertainly.

‘Duh,
Austin!’
Chelle said with a scowl.

Sue looked at her blankly. And then the penny dropped. So
that
was why Chelle was dressed to kill! How silly she’d been not to realise! Chelle had been clear enough at the last meeting …

‘Yeah, when he gets here, I want me to be the first person he sees.’

Sue perked up, suddenly warming to the possibilities. ‘When the doorbell rings, would you like to answer it?’ she offered.

Chelle gasped. ‘Could I?’

Could she?
Sue could almost kiss her!

‘Oh, yes!’ she declared with relief. ‘Be my guest. Answer away – any time.’

‘Brill.’

That settled, Chelle looked around the kitchen, pouted and then switched off. Sue sneaked a look at the kitchen clock. There was still fifty minutes to go. She thought about opening a packet of biscuits, but remembered what Chelle had said about cellulite. So she forced herself not to comfort eat, and then the room lapsed into silence.

As usual, Roxy was the last to arrive … or rather,
almost
the last. The whole room sagged as Chelle half-heartedly led her into the kitchen.

‘No need to be so excited to see me!’ she said. But they were all wound too tightly to smile. Sitting rigidly around the kitchen table, everyone – even Cressida – was anxiously awaiting the arrival of the world’s most famous Mr Jones.

Roxy frowned. Was it her imagination, or had they all scrubbed up that bit harder for tonight’s meeting? It went without saying that Chelle’s clobber was set to stun, but this time she wasn’t alone. Everyone was a maxed-out version of theirselves. Holly was extra squeaky-clean, her pastel knitwear glowing like the starring twinset from a Daz ad. Sue may have been hyperventilating as she fluttered along the kitchen cabinets, but her hair was up and the pewter scarf was on. Simon – hardly eager to meet their soon-to-be guest – was sporting a new, uncharacteristically trendy hairdo, and Terry had finally cracked open one of his new Paul Smith shirts. Even Cressida wasn’t immune to the excitement and had assembled her hair
into an even more brittle helmet than usual, before going the whole hog and pinning a brooch to the front of her blazer. Only Woody was normal, in battered jeans, scuffed-up boots and faded grey T-shirt.