Could It Be I'm Falling in Love? (24 page)

‘Hey, I
know
you!’ he suddenly grinned. ‘Didn’t we …? A few years back …?’

Roxy felt the weight of the group’s eyes upon her. Holly clasped her hand to her mouth in shock.

‘Um …’ Roxy mumbled limply. Had they? Her brain was sure they hadn’t, but her body was telling her they had. Or they should – right now – as fast as humanly possible. Lust was charging her veins, lighting weird sparks in her head.
Wow!
What was it with Lavender Heath? A few weeks ago it had been a sexual dead zone – but suddenly it was awash with man-totty! It was like the ley lines of shag and hotness had crossed and all the UK’s pheromones had converged at this spot.

‘Yeah, I’m sure we did … In a club somewhere … In the gents’.’

‘No,’ Roxy replied a little more strongly. But her nipples had fizzed into action, like a twinset of Pinocchio’s nose.
Imagine it!
Her and Austin in a gents’ toilet! It’d be the wildest, filthiest shag of her life! She could almost feel the thump of the dance music reverberating through the floorboards, the hard metallic nub of the door-lock as it rubbed against her back.

Somebody coughed.

It was Woody.

And –
bollocks!
– Roxy fell back to earth with a bang. Gorgeous, scrumptious Woody didn’t have a beer belly, or a chin-rug. Woody wouldn’t insinuate a rude sexual history, or freak out a middle-aged lady in her own kitchen. It was a sex-life sod’s
law; a shag-fest Catch-22. And OK,
yes
, she knew Woody was taken – and
yes
, he probably didn’t give a monkey’s either way – but his good opinion of her mattered. She didn’t want him thinking she was
like that
. And she
definitely
didn’t want him thinking she was like that
with Austin!

‘I didn’t!’ she announced emphatically, crossing her arms and trying to force her nipples back down to her chest.

‘My mistake.’ Austin winked. ‘So many toilets; so many blondes.’

‘I’m not just some
blonde,’
she retorted angrily. ‘I’m a television presenter!’

Austin turned towards Simon. ‘Chin up, Downton; you’re not bottom of the food chain, after all!’

‘I interview Hollywood stars,’ she told him frostily.
‘Real
Hollywood stars.’

‘Ouch!’ Austin pretended to be scalded. ‘Hey, Sugatits – you got a gents’ here? Reckon me and Feisty’ll be paying it a visit in precisely two and a half minutes.’

‘I believe Sue’s toilet has a mirror. I’m sure you and your reflection will be fine,’ Roxy replied.

But Austin had already turned back to Woody. ‘And what about Vidal Sassoon?’ He pointed at Cressida. ‘Does the barnet come with a name?’

‘Watch it, Austin,’ Woody growled. ‘You’re at the end of everyone’s patience.’

‘My name is Cressida Cunningham,’ Cressida answered crisply. ‘Former Member of Parliament for Biddington Borders, and Secretary of State for Work and Pensions.’

‘Lovely,’ replied Austin with a yawn. And then he spotted Holly and her notebook.

‘Oi! Anne Frank! What’re you writing?’ His voice was hard and aggressive. Holly froze. ‘Are you a bloody journalist?’

‘No,’ she squeaked, her voice extra small.

‘Why are you taking notes then?’ Austin glared. Roxy suddenly felt sorry for Holly. She looked like a bunny in the track of a juggernaut.

‘Get off her case!’ Roxy told him. ‘She’s a writer! She’s not doing any harm. It’s like an artist doing a doodle.’

‘Sorry.’ Holly shakily stowed her notebook in her bag. ‘I didn’t mean …’ She looked so frightened Roxy thought she might cry.

‘For goodness sake, Austin – don’t you recognise her?’ cried Terence. ‘She wrote your first ever movie! She’s Holly Childs!’

‘Yeah?’ For a moment there was a flicker of interest. But then Austin was diverted by the doughnuts. ‘Calories; Christ, how I’ve missed you.’

‘I’ve changed a bit since then,’ Holly mumbled, embarrassed.

Austin reached forward and looped one off the plate. ‘You look so good I don’t know whether to eat you or shag you,’ he addressed the doughnut.

‘But you must have met her on set?’ Terence persevered. ‘You could hardly have missed her, for heaven’s sake, she was
thirteen!’

‘Thirteen?’ Austin echoed, his mouth full of half-eaten doughnut. ‘What’re you insinuating, Rain Man? Are you a complete cloud-headed pervert?’

And then he scraped back his chair and headed to Sue’s toilet. He didn’t bother shutting the door.

Everyone stared at the table, silently nursing their egos. The sound of Austin urinating filled the room. Roxy concentrated very hard on the globules of doughnut that surrounded where Austin had sat. Anything was better than looking at Woody. God knows what he thought of her right now.

‘I didn’t,’ she whispered, as the sound of urine hitting water subsided. ‘Not with him … in the gents’.’

And then Austin yelled out from the toilet. ‘Oi, Feisty! How about you and me head back to my place? I’ve got a crate of tequila and a stack of Brazilian porn. They’ll do anything, those Brazilians. Whadd’ya say? Let’s make a night of it!’

‘I’ll take him home,’ Woody said grimly.

‘What a silly little boy he is,’ Cressida suddenly piped up. ‘Such a fatal mix – money, success and a penis. I’ve seen this so many times before.’

Roxy looked at her in surprise. Surely Cressida couldn’t be
used
to hanging around with super-sexed A-listers? She was a posh, frumpy spinster – not exactly top of anyone’s guest list.

‘Everyone likes to think we politicians do nothing more than lounge around the Commons, fiddling our expenses,’ Cressida continued sagely. ‘But we see ten times more of life than your average man on the street. When you go everywhere from homeless shelters to black-tie dinners, you see life in all its inglorious varieties. Mr Jones, here, thinks he’s special, but he’s no more than predictably average. Still –’ she stood up
and brushed down her blazer – ‘he’s come to the right place, hasn’t he, chaps?’

Everyone looked up in alarm.

‘Weren’t you all desperate for a lost soul to nurture? Well, it looks very much to me like you’ve found one.’

‘Austin’s not a lost soul,’ Simon whispered. ‘He’s a spoilt, self-indulgent millionaire, too lazy to do a day’s work.’

‘Exactly,’ Cressida replied with a smile. ‘You’ve made my point exactly.’ And she headed for the door and for home.

To:
Roxy Squires

From:
The Marketing Team, Vanish Cleaning Products (Laundry Division)

Dear Mrs Squires,

Thank you for contacting our advertising agency, Pritchard & Pritchard, and suggesting a new plot for a VANISH ad – starring you!

We’re so glad our adverts have come to your attention. We work hard on making them appealing to housewives. We’re always being contacted by women facing the battle to remove stubborn stains – grassy knees on trousers, felt-tip on school-uniform shirts … But we LOVED your idea featuring your attempts to remove ‘alternative’ stains – cocktails, baby oil, kebab sauce (plus that other stain, that would never get past Ofcom!). How wonderful of you to send it to us as a joke!

We’re sending you a bumper bottle of VANISH as thanks!

‘Bollocks!’

Despite the fact that Roxy was the owner of no less than eleven sets of on-trend gym wear, none of them had been worn for actual exercise (bar the kit from the other morning, which was still in a sweaty ball in the corner of her bedroom), and none of them were right for exercising with Woody. She had all the right brands … Sweaty Betty, Lululemon, Stella – even some No Balls (because she’d been web-shopping, drunk). But which should she wear today? Should she opt for maximum cover-up to hide her orange skin? Or should she say ‘sod it’ and go for a sexy crop top and shorts? If the other morning’s exertions were anything to go by, she’d sweat buckets, so maybe covering up wasn’t a good option. Besides, what was the point in hiding? Woody had already seen her at her technicolour worst.

Or had he?

Because, wardrobe anxieties aside, Roxy had something bigger to stress about: the fact that she’d agreed to go jogging with Woody at all. What the hell had she been thinking? She
couldn’t jog – the other morning had proved it. And she certainly couldn’t jog next to Woody. He wouldn’t know what to laugh at first: the fact that her face would be neon pink by the time she’d reached the first lamp post, or that the first lamp post would be as far as she’d reach. The whole prospect spelt humiliation on a see-it-from-space scale.

But then there was a knock at the door, and it was too late for freaking. Woody was here. She opened the door.

‘Ready?’ he asked.

‘As Brek,’ she replied with empty bravado. Yet again she had to force her libido to heel. What was it with Woody, she wondered? Did he never look bad in
anything?
Because even at six thirty in the morning, in shorts and a fraying Stones T-shirt, Woody still looked like sex on her doorstep. It was no bloody wonder no one ever saw Jennifer. If
she
woke up to the sight of Woody every morning, she’d probably stay glued to her bed sheets as well!

‘And how long are you planning for this morning’s bout of torture, Mr Grey?’ she flirted.

‘Nothing too terrible. Just a few laps of the village.’

Trying not to whimper at the words ‘just a few’, Roxy closed her front door. They hadn’t started running yet, but already her palms were sweaty.
Must be the nerves
, she decided, as she wiped them on her leggings. She’d plumped for Lululemon in the end. They were the most expensive. Hopefully Woody would be wise to the cost and be rendered so stunned at the extravagance, that he’d fail to notice she was marginally less fit than a darts player.

And then, to her surprise, they were suddenly jogging – two sets of feet pounding the pavement in perfect synchronicity. For a few brief moments Roxy felt elated. She and Woody were together! Well, not
together
together, but the next best thing …
working
together – as a team. Was this the joggers’ high everyone banged on about? This was bloody brilliant! If she’d known jogging felt this good she’d have started yonks ago.

‘So,’ she started brightly – there was no point fannying around – ‘about the group; I was thinking a good plan of action for Sue would be—’

And then the joggers’ high was nuked by something else – something Roxy remembered from the other morning: painful side, leaden lungs, burning cheeks, nauseous tummy – and the absolute certainty that all her internal organs were in crisis. She stopped, raised her face to the heavens and desperately tried to suck in some breath.

‘You all right?’ Woody doubled back to find her.

She tried to say ‘Uh huh’, but it came out ‘Urghhh’.

‘Were we going too fast? We can slow down.’

She made a rasping noise that seemed to come from the pit of her soul.

Woody looked at her closely. ‘OK, enough – Rox; bend over.’

She tried to make another Mr Grey quip, but couldn’t.

‘Put your head between your knees and just breathe.’

So she did.

‘Maybe I was a bit too ambitious.’ Woody frowned.

From between her knees, Roxy tried to blank out Woody’s legs and get her bearings. And to her mortification, she saw
they’d only made it as far as the pub. For a moment she wondered if it was open (the morning might not be a complete loss, after all), but then she remembered it was six thirty-five.

‘Just rest a minute, and we’ll start again.’

‘Again?’

‘You’re not giving up already!’

She was dying to say yes, but she couldn’t lose face (even if that face was dripping like a sponge).

‘Give up?’ she wheezed. ‘Never! Eat my dirt, Pop Boy!’ And she forced herself out of recovery and up the road.

In the end, Roxy lasted two full laps of the village, before collapsing on Woody’s front doorstep.

‘Not bad, Squires.’ He grinned at her. He barely had a bead of sweat on him. Roxy was sure the Lululemon was squelching. ‘Breakfast?’

She wheezed out a ‘Yes’, and he unlocked his door.

Despite her struggle for breath, Roxy felt a thrill of excitement. They were alone, just the two of them, in Woody’s place! But then excitement gave way to fear. Was she about to come face-to-face with Jennifer? Whilst Woody had been taking her jogging, had Jennifer been lounging in bed?

‘I should go!’ she blurted.

‘Why?’ Woody replied in surprise.

‘I don’t want to gatecrash.’

‘You’re not gatecrashing – I invited you, you nutter.’

‘But, Jennifer …’

Woody smiled. ‘Jennifer’s not
here
. Look, come in, Rox – sit
down. No jog’s complete without breakfast and you’re in luck, because I happen to make the world’s best ever sausage sandwich!’

But Roxy’s anxieties were not over. As she followed Woody into his kitchen-diner, her mind whirred. A sausage sandwich meant bread, and bread meant CARBS. Could she ask for a no-bread sausage sandwich? Liz Hurley would and nobody would bat an eyelid. But if she did it, would Woody think she was nuts? Maybe she should just carb herself up. After all, on the jog she’d been too busy trying to breathe to talk tactics, and ingesting bread seemed a small price to pay for prolonging the chance to talk career strategies with Woody. So she decided to button her lips and stay schtum.