Could It Be I'm Falling in Love? (23 page)

‘Cinnamon doughnut?’ Holly offered, her eyes glued to the hallway. ‘Straight from the Simon Drennan patisserie!’

Roxy waved the plate away.

‘Hey, Rox,’ Simon greeted her suddenly, as though he’d only just noticed her arrive. His fingers drummed the kitchen table. ‘Working late?’

‘Huh?’

‘Those TV make-up ladies always overdo it.’

‘Oh … yeah, right.’

Self-consciously, Roxy pulled her sleeves further down over her glowing hands. She still couldn’t get used to sleeves, let alone trousers that finished lower than the thigh. She tried not to think about tonight’s depressing ensemble – but she only had herself, two bottles of bubbly and a pint of Fake Bake to blame. And, until the tan faded into something more human, she needed to cover up. She’d spent hours rummaging in the back of her wardrobe for clothes that actually covered her up. Eventually she’d stumbled across a bag of black basics. She hadn’t worn a polo neck for years –
and full-length leggings!
She’d hidden her last millimetres of neon neck under a scarf and stuffed her feet into a pair of boots. She looked as wrapped as a parcel and as chaste as a nun. Thank Christ everything was Lycra!

Roxy perched herself on to a kitchen stool and threw Sue
a rallying grin. And then a heavy silence resumed. The only noise was the sound of Simon’s fingers. The whole room was consumed with waiting.

‘Bloody hell, you lot!’ Roxy blurted, making Holly jump in fright. ‘What’s this? Civvy central? Anyone’d think you guys had never met a megastar before!’ She nodded at the seating arrangement.

Everyone looked where Roxy was looking. A single chair – taller than the rest – had been left empty at the head of the table. They’d all angled their seats towards it.

‘Christ!’ Simon scraped back his chair, his complexion paling to a new tone of ash. ‘We’re sitting in bloody
worship!’

Everyone jumped up and hastily started rearranging the seating. After some hurried consultation, the table was pushed aside and the chairs thrust into a circle.

From her perch on the stool, Roxy grinned. ‘Now you look like you’re all AA!’

‘Well, how
should
we sit?’ Simon asked wildly, his eyes beginning to bulge in panic.

Roxy shrugged. ‘Just be normal!’

‘Normal. Right …’ Simon ran his hand through his hair. ‘What’s normal?’

‘Around the table will be fine,’ Woody said calmly. ‘Maybe with Sue at the head.’

‘Me? Why me?’ Sue froze.

‘Well, you
are
the host,’ Holly reasoned.

‘But …’ Sue’s protestations were interrupted by a tussle.

Cressida and Chelle were grappling over the chair in front of Austin’s.

‘But I wanna sit there!’ Chelle demanded.

‘Whatever for?’ Cressida tried to muscle the chair away. ‘You can sit over there.’

‘But I
want
to sit
here.’

‘Worried he’ll miss you if you’re not in his eyeline? He’s got about as much chance of missing the Blackpool illuminations!’

‘I don’t know why you care anyway.’

‘I don’t,’ the former Secretary of State for Work and Pensions insisted primly. ‘I merely want to be comfortable.’

‘Well, park your arse over there then.’ Chelle nodded towards an ancient armchair tucked in the corner. ‘It’ll be better for you, at your age, Grandma. Not so hard on your hips.’

Cressida puffed up, ready to strike, but was halted by the sound of the doorbell. Everyone froze.

‘He’s here!’
someone hissed.
‘Austin Jones is here!’

‘Relax,’ Woody said calmly. ‘I’ll get it.’

‘NO!’ shrieked Chelle.
‘I’ll
get it!’ and she proceeded to pull out her compact. The room watched in incredulous silence as lipgloss was topped up, blusher reapplied and strands of hair minutely adjusted.

Seconds stretched agonisingly by.

‘For Christ’s sake, Chelle!’ Simon exploded. ‘Tonight would be good – before he changes his mind and goes home.’

‘Quick!’ Holly cried out in panic.

The doorbell went again.

‘All
right,’
Chelle snapped, as she flipped shut her compact, took a deep breath and slowly sashayed out into the hall.

The whole room sighed with relief. And then, as though moving to a choreographed cue, everyone leant forward to eavesdrop.

There was the sound of Chelle fumbling with the latch and then …

‘Ding
fucking
dong,’
came a deep voice – like a super-sexed Leslie Phillips on his way to addiction-clinic. ‘So that window-cleaning ponce
can
still pull ‘em! I’d heard his knob’d been on the bench so long it’d filed for a transfer!’

‘Whose knob?’ Chelle asked girlishly, at least an octave higher than normal. ‘Oh, I’m not with
Woody!’
She emitted a bubbly giggle that sounded like pink champagne in a frosted glass. And then her voice suddenly became adamant. ‘No; I’m single.’

‘All right, Single? I’m Austin. Got anything to drink? My tongue’s drier than a sailor’s gonad.’

There was the sound of material crumpling. Either Chelle had fainted, or Austin had tossed her his coat. Then footsteps … and then there he was, rounding the corner and filling up the kitchen with his presence.

Roxy gasped.

The man voted ‘Most Handsome Male Alive’ by cinemagoers four years in a row – the man whose drop-dead gorgeousness was the stuff of legend, whose name alone had opened a dozen movies and made weak-kneed wives look upon their once-treasured husbands with marriage-altering
disappointment – was standing just a few feet away. And he looked … he looked …

‘He’s
fat!’
said Roxy incredulously.

‘Shh!’ somebody hissed.

‘Austin Jones is fat!’
she repeated, oblivious. But surely she’d just seen his photo in the papers and he was thin. But here he was, standing right in front of her, more pork pie than California rolls. Nobody could get fat
that
quickly. She stared in disbelief at his face – so familiar, but unfamiliar too. It was like he
was
Austin Jones, but he wasn’t. The same sparkling green eyes were there, the same famous hair, sumptuous lips and even white teeth, but it was as though someone had pumped him up. But how could Austin Jones,
the
Austin Jones – darling of red carpets,
Vanity Fair
photo shoots and women’s nocturnal fantasies worldwide – turn into a podgy bloater? Where was his pride? His self-respect?
His staff?
Didn’t he have an army of people paid precisely to make sure this never happened? And what, Roxy thought in an epiphany of outrage,
what
was with the manky chin tufts? Was he trying to grow a
beard?
Any anorak’d idiot knew beards were cosmically, epicly wrong – even Brad Pitt couldn’t pull one off!

Roxy was about to splutter, but Austin got in first.

‘Bloody hell, Woodster. What’s this? A fucking knitting group?’

‘Evening, Austin,’ Woody replied tensely.

‘Like-minded people, you said.’

‘Similar situations, it was.’

Austin looked momentarily gobsmacked. But then he took a step backwards and laughed.

‘Is this a wind-up? Have I walked into some care-in-the-community thing by mistake?’

‘Austin!’
Woody warned sternly. And then his tone became more relaxed. ‘Look, come on … chill out, say hi. Fancy a beer?’

‘I fancy something stronger.’

The group had been stunned into silence. This wasn’t the Austin Jones they’d been expecting. Where were the endearing one-liners, sensitive eyes and winning smile? Where was the chat shows’ easy-going affability, and the red carpets’ classic designer suits? This Austin’s shirt looked ready to fire off its buttons, such was the strain over his gut.

‘Oh!’ Sue blushed as she brought herself to Austin’s attention. ‘Oh – sorry. Would you like some tea, Mr Jones? Or maybe a, um, whisky?’

‘Meths ought to do it,’ he drawled. Sue froze, confused. But then Woody nodded gently and she scuttled off for a bottle of Scotch.

Again, the room fell into silence. Austin peered at everyone in turn.

‘Go on!’ Holly whispered, nudging Simon. ‘Offer him a cinnamon doughnut.’

Simon jabbed her sharply and did his best to blend into the wall.

Nobody spoke. Sue hurried back with the Scotch. She nervously leant over Austin – like a snack over the jaws of a pitbull – and set the bottle and a glass down before him. Austin didn’t move. So, hands shaking, she leant back across him
and poured out an ultra-large measure. Austin drained it in one gulp.

He arched an eyebrow at Woody. ‘So this lot have just retired from Tinseltown? What were they? Catering crew?’

‘I didn’t say they were like you
exactly
. I said,
like you
, they were all successful in their fields. And,
like you
, they’ve now opted for a change of career.’

‘Change of career?’ Austin rapped his glass for a refill. ‘I’m opting for
no
career. I’m opting for long lazy days yanking my chain.’

Cressida tutted. Austin turned the full force of his green eyes upon her. ‘Problem?’

‘No problem,’ she replied primly. ‘I just happen to believe that manners and industry are preferable to sloth and masturbation.’

Roxy gasped. Had Cressida really just said
masturbation?

Austin regarded her coldly.

‘If I want to wank myself into senility, that’s my prerogative. As retirement activities go, it’s got to be better than golf.’

‘Retirement?’ Cressida scoffed with disdain. ‘You’re a young man! You shouldn’t be giving up – you should be thinking about what you can give.’

Austin looked at Woody and laughed. ‘Is she for real, or have I slipped myself mind-altering drugs?’

‘Of course I’m real!’ Cressida replied.

Austin held up his hands in surrender. ‘All right, I give up; who are they all?’

Woody made the introductions.

‘This is Chelle Blowers, the former partner of Dwayne.’ After her early bout as door monitor, Chelle had gone suspiciously quiet. She was staring at Austin’s spare tyre. But on hearing her name she extended her chest, batted her lashes and flashed him a lipglossy smile.

‘A WAG,’ Austin summarised lasciviously. ‘Not that I’m complaining. The world needs decoration.’

Chelle froze, trying to work out if she’d just been slagged off.

‘And this is Terence Leggett, the UK’s most famous weatherman,’ Woody continued.

‘No need for weathermen in LA – the weather’s always the same.’

‘And this is a fellow actor for you to chat things over with – our very own small-screen superstar, Simon Drennan.’

‘Yeah?’ Austin mimicked interest. And then he instantly cut it off dead. ‘Never watch telly.’

‘What, not even
Down Town?’
Terence asked.

‘You’re in
Downton?’
Austin looked surprised. He eyed Simon, impressed.

Simon hesitated. And then he reluctantly confessed. ‘Not
Downton; Down Town
– the soap.’

‘Never heard of it,’ Austin sniffed.

Terence stifled a laugh.

‘The problem with the small screen is that it’s just too small,’ Austin plucked a cigarette from his pocket and lit up. ‘Unless it’s HBO. Done any HBO?’

Simon looked sick.

‘Thought not.’

‘And this is our host for tonight,’ Woody interrupted. ‘Our Queen of the Crossword, Sue Bunce!’

‘Bunce?’ Austin suddenly snapped to attention. He turned and peered at her closely. Sue backed into the cabinets. ‘Fuck! Sue Bunce?
Really?
I had your picture on my wall! Seriously – you’re
Sugatits Suzi?’

Everyone looked at Sue in surprise. Of all of them, Sue seemed the least likely to be recognised by Austin. Or by anyone. But Austin was drinking in every inch of her body.

‘Austin …’ Woody warned. But he didn’t seem to hear.

‘Fuck me!’ he declared with a snort. Like lightning, he leapt over to Sue, circling her in predatory inspection. Within seconds Sue started to wilt. But Austin just threw his head back and laughed. ‘You’re kidding, right?
You
can’t be Sugatits Suzi! Sugatits Suzi was
hot!’

‘Now look here!’ Terence sprang to her defence. ‘She
is
—’ He momentarily looked a bit lost. ‘And she’s just Sue these days, if you don’t mind!’ he added crossly.

‘Too right she is!’ Austin grinned. ‘The only thing sugary about
those
tits is that they’ve dangled in her doughnuts.’

Everyone looked down – and, sure enough, Austin was right. The sugar crusting of Simon’s home-made cinnamon doughnuts was dusted across the bottom of her breasts. Roxy cringed.
Poor Sue
. How the hell had
that
got
there?

‘Now, that really is enough!’ the weatherman demanded bravely. ‘You owe Sue an apology!’

Austin flopped back into his seat.

‘For what? Telling the truth?’

‘You rude bastard!’ Roxy jumped off her stool. ‘I don’t care how many movies you’ve starred in – you apologise right now, lard arse!’

‘Yes, Austin,’ Woody agreed tightly.
‘Apologise.’

Austin looked at him strangely, as though Woody was speaking a language only they could understand. ‘Fine,’ he shrugged, nonchalant. ‘Sorry. Christ, can no one around here take a joke?’

‘Aren’t we all looking at one?’ Roxy growled.

Austin turned and looked at Roxy anew. And then a smile played upon his lips.

‘So, who are you, Feisty?’ The flame of flirtation suddenly ignited in his eye. Roxy gasped as her breath whooshed out her body. The way his lips moved around the word ‘Feisty’ was so sexual! Just
those lips
and
that word
had given her lady shivers. And now Austin Jones was looking at her –
really
looking at her – she felt …
she felt like she’d been fired on a rocket!
Immediately his weird beard and big belly vanished and Roxy was dumbstruck by how achingly, meltingly,
supernaturally
handsome he was.
This
was the Austin Jones they’d been expecting, the Austin Jones the camera loved, the public adored and the supermodels queued up in a line for. It was as if the Austin of the last ten minutes had never existed; all she could see were the tempting pools of his eyes, the impossible perfection of his cheekbones and the sensual promise of his mouth. How could she ever have thought Austin Jones wasn’t her type? Austin Jones was every woman’s type!