Could It Be I'm Falling in Love? (27 page)

‘Really?’ Roxy stared at Terence. His face was screwed up in confusion (or was it after-burn from all the tequila?). ‘Nah, you’ve got Terry all wrong – you’ve just got to find his party button, that’s all. Besides, there’s no way he’s going home in
a wheelbarrow; that’s Comme des Garçons he’s wearing.’

‘Comedy-guff-on, more like.’ Dave eyed Terence’s blouson and drew himself a Bass.

Roxy strode back to the table.

‘You seriously want me to make a
record?’
Terence asked, the moment her bottom hit the chair.

‘It’ll be epic!’ She pushed a tequila into his hand. ‘You see, Tezza, it’s page one in your chapter of my masterplan – the one I’ve been designing to get you all back to the top. You had me stumped for a while; you’re an awkward bugger, and your age doesn’t help. At first I was thinking a three-sixty makeover … You know –
Fat Club;
Gok; Nick Knowles …
Bottoms up!’
She knocked back her shot in one. ‘But then it hit me …’ she continued gruffly as the tequila inflicted its burn. ‘You need to show the public that you’re
more
than just that weather guy. You can’t let a bunch of
other
TV personalities reinvent you – you need to grab the world by the goolies and reinvent yourself!’

‘Grab the world by the
what?’

‘Obviously,
Strictly’s
top of the list …’

Terence choked.

‘… but every celeb on the block’s gunning for that one. And we shouldn’t put all your eggs in one handbag. We need a multi-thonged attack.’

‘A
what
attack?’

‘Which gets me back to the record.’ Roxy grinned. ‘Comic Relief’s next month. What d’you reckon about doing the official single?’

‘You seriously want me to
sing?’

‘It’ll be fun!’

‘Fun?’

Roxy prised the empty tequila glass from his fingers and inserted the lager instead.

‘You
do
know I was the only boy to get barred from school choir? I was seven.’

‘Even more reason to do it. C’mon, Tezza – even
you
must see it’s a laugh. More than a laugh – a way back.’

‘But a way back to what, exactly?’

‘To fame! To being fab, and famous, and on telly!’

Terence stared for a moment, his whole body rigid.

‘Dave!’ Roxy called over her shoulder. ‘Bring us a couple of brandies, would you? Tezza’s gone into shock!’

‘Don’t take this the wrong way,’ Terence said finally, after Roxy had wafted a Rémy Martin under his nostrils, ‘but I don’t think you’re from this planet. This whole evening is an out-of-body experience! You do know who I am, don’t you? I’m Terence Leggett, professional meteorologist. I used to present premium-quality weather forecasts on prime-time television. On what planet would parading about like a tone-deaf village idiot, or cancanning in a sparkly cat suit, get me back my job? It would be complete career suicide.’

‘Your career’s already dead,’ Roxy scoffed. ‘It’s stuffed and mounted – the full rigor mortis.’

‘Oh, don’t hold back – heaven forbid you spare my feelings.’

‘I’m just being honest. No point blowing smoke up your arse.’

Terence self-anaesthetised with a very large brandy. ‘And what would you have me sing?’ he asked warily.

‘“It’s Raining Men”?’

He made a popping noise, like one of his organs had imploded.

‘At least I didn’t say “White Christmas”.’

‘The bloody tabloids made me a joke – and now you want to wheel me out for round two!’

‘All right, Tezza. Keep your hair on …’

‘“Let’s go for a drink,” you said. “Have a tequila,” you said. But you’re just like the bloody papers. You want everyone to take the piss out of me
again!’

‘I don’t want everyone to take the piss out of you,’ Roxy snapped. ‘I want everyone to love you, you muppet. The others might be happy to trowel on the sympathy, but that’s not the kind of woman I am. I’m telling it like it is – stay as you are and you’re over.’

‘You …
you
 …
YOU–’

‘Oh, quit the dramatics and listen. You’ll get nowhere flogging a dead horse. If you want to get back in the saddle, face facts – your old career’s over. Like it or lump it, you’re not Terence Leggett any more – you’re Tornado Terry. Embrace the change and move on.’

‘By singing homosexual disco anthems?’

‘Christ; you don’t even know the basics, do you?’ Roxy sighed. What was she working with here? Even Z-listers knew all this stuff. ‘The first rule of fame: know your market. You need to be a showbiz Lazarus. The great British public may love chopping
down a tall poppy … but what they love
more
is a poppy that gets back on its feet with a smile. Which leads me to lesson number two: self-deprecating humour. You can get away with bloody murder if you laugh. Careers are reborn on taking the piss out of yourself – did you never see George Michael’s video for “Outside”? Trust me …’ She leant forward, cupped his face and slapped him lightly around the chops. ‘You’ll get nowhere being a grump. Love your inner Tornado and the public will love you back.’

‘They will?’

‘With knobs on,’ she promised.

For a moment Terence looked thoughtful. ‘“It’s Raining Men”, you say?’

‘Hallelujah!’ she replied with a smile.

#ROXYSAYS: Tequillla
RRRRROCKSS!

To:
Roxy Squires

From:
Red Carpet Premieres PR

Why didn’t you say the tickets were for Tornado Terry???
I love him!!!!! He’s sooo lol!!!!!

Course I’ll send you a couple of tickets. I’m biking them over right now!

x

Sue stared.

And stared.

She’d spent the last forty minutes at her vanity table, scrutinising her reflection for a sign. She’d turned on the overhead light. She’d tried with and without her glasses. She’d gazed for so long, and from so many angles, that the daylight had faded and her tea had gone cold. But it made no difference – she still couldn’t see Suzi.

Was she still in her, Sue wondered. Was the pretty, laughing,
sexy
girl who’d enchanted Hunt – the one who’d magnetised men without trying – was
she
still in there … even a trace? Could it be that, despite the years, Suzi was lying dormant under the neglect and the biscuits, waiting to be set free?

Sue blinked.

She’d read that Marilyn Monroe had been able to switch herself on or off at will … that the ultimate screen idol could, at any time, switch to plain old Norma Jean and walk down the street unspotted. But then – in a grocery queue, perhaps, or a diner – she’d flick back to being her. A pinning back of
the shoulders, a roll of the hips, a minuscule adjustment to her expression – her eyes – and
bang!
Suddenly she was Marilyn again, and shoppers would blink in dumbfounded amazement, staggered to be standing next to a star.

Was it the same with her, Sue wondered as she gazed at her own reflection. Was it just that when she’d hidden in Lavender Heath, she’d unknowingly turned off her Suzi button and forgotten where to find the switch?

She smiled.

Nothing.

She smiled again, wider.

But then she remembered something else – something snide she’d heard on the radio about a famous businessman’s hair. His hair, it was argued, was like a time capsule buried in a garden. Vain, powerful people were supposed to subconsciously freeze their look at the peak of their success, hence one celeb’s devotion to her bubble perm, or the rock star’s refusal to cut his grey locks.

And Sue wondered … had this happened to her too? Was she mummified in time? Although it wasn’t her hairstyle that had frozen, but her heart – her mind – her nerves. Had
her
peak moment been the scandal? After all, it wasn’t
normal
to be fifty and frightened; it wasn’t
healthy
to hide behind doors; it wasn’t
right
to pine for a man who’d made his decision thirty years ago and scuttled back home to his wife. And then Sue wondered … did she really still love Hunt? Or was he just an excuse? Was the truth
actually
that she was stuck as that nervous nineteen-year-old, forever frozen in the head-lights
of scandal, preserved in perpetuity like a pickled onion in a jar?

She looked at her reflection. Out of the corner of her eye she saw the cashmere duck egg hanging on the front of her wardrobe. And Sue decided …

She didn’t want to be an onion.

She’d had enough of being pickled.

Cressida was doing her best to look unruffled. Politics had given her a lifetime of training: when it came to greeting bad news, she could put on a brave face in her sleep. But this was jolly difficult. She ignored the icy wind at her ankles, wrapped her dressing gown more tightly around her and nodded at the young fireman who’d momentarily returned to the engine.

‘Is there a neighbour you could wait with?’ he asked kindly. ‘It’s pretty parky out here.’

‘I’m perfectly fine, thank you.’ She waved him away with a hand that had gone blue.

‘I’d let you wait in the cab …’ He motioned towards the huge shiny fire engine dwarfing Cressida’s drive. ‘But, health and safety …’

‘Really,’ Cressida assured him, ‘I’ll survive.’

The young fireman headed back into the house.

Alone on her lawn, Cressida surveyed the small column of smoke that still plumed into the section of sky above her kitchen. She couldn’t possibly disturb her neighbours – she didn’t
know
her neighbours. And this was hardly the time to
introduce herself – at dawn, in a terry-towel robe. She thought about calling Woody, but her phone was indoors and the fireman had told her that under no circumstances was she to re-enter the house – not until they’d made a full structural inspection and issued the all-clear. Heavens, it had only been a few flames: hardly the inferno in the Great Hall at Windsor. Still, rules were rules …

But she
was
freezing. And, despite the brave face, it
was
embarrassing being in her nightie on the lawn. A bit like standing on election night hustings with a ladder in your tights. Thank goodness the village was quiet!

Suddenly Cressida’s fragile equanimity was shattered by a deep, growly roar. A low-slung sports car came towards her, its driver slowing for a gawp. Cressida didn’t know a thing about cars (other than that they should display a valid tax disk, stick to thirty in towns and emit no more than 130 grams of CO
₂
per kilogram), but even
she
knew this car was ludicrously expensive. It looked like something from a Bond movie car chase.

And then there was a whistle – loud and sharp, and dropping a tone at the end – the kind of whistle that workmen were reputed to be fond of.

‘Niiice slippers!’

Cressida grimaced. This was just what she needed – a wisecracking loudmouth. She dipped down and, sure enough, Austin Jones smirked back from the driver’s seat.

She tightened her dressing gown. What was
he
doing up at this time? She knew the chances of being spotted by someone
in flagrante
were quite high, but she never imagined it would be by him. Surely he should be languishing in a coffin somewhere, waiting for the emergence of dusk?