Could It Be I'm Falling in Love? (32 page)

A few minutes later she arrived at Hawthorne Close and scuttled up its pavement to find Holly’s house. She stopped at number fourteen. It wasn’t a typical Lavender Heath home – it was semi-detached, for a start. And whilst the place wasn’t overrun exactly (the grass was cut and the windows were sparkling), there was a definite air of neglect. The paint on the door was peeling and the window box was crammed with rotting flowers.

Roxy felt a sudden surge of sadness. Poor Holly, looking after her ill mother. How epic she was to dedicate herself to her care. If the stileto was on Roxy’s foot, she knew she wouldn’t be up to the job. So, if Holly didn’t fancy Mahiki, fair enough. She didn’t have to go out to have a good time – she could stay in! And Roxy had just the solution … She’d spent ages researching home spas, and everything was already paid for. She’d found a masseur who did home visits – plus a hot-stones specialist, reflexologist, mobile hairdresser, home-stylist, makeup artist and a manicurist-on-wheels who promised the best mani-pedis outside of zone one. All Holly had to do was name the day.

Beaming excitedly, Roxy knocked on the door.

And waited.

And knocked again.

And waited some more.

Eventually a small, wizened lady answered.

‘Yes?’ She peered at Roxy suspiciously, her extraordinarily lined face rumpling, confused.

‘Hello, Mrs Childs.’ Roxy beamed and tried to speak extra
loudly, suppressing the urge to recommend a good night cream. ‘I’m Roxy – Holly’s friend. Is she in?’

‘Who?’ the old lady replied shrilly, her forehead furrowing further.

‘Roxy; I’m Roxy. She must have mentioned me?’ Her smile became a little unsteady. She’d only met the old lady a few seconds ago, but already she was beginning to feel like that lemon.

‘Loxy?’

‘Roxy!’

‘Yes; no need to shout, dear; I heard you!’

‘Oh.’ Roxy awkwardly shifted her weight. ‘Well, is Holly there?’

‘Holly?’ The woman looked confused again.

Roxy raised her voice even higher. ‘Your daughter!’

‘My daughter? Here?’

‘I just want a quick word. It won’t take long.’

‘Don’t be silly.’ The old lady looked at Roxy as though she’d said something crazy. ‘Holly’s in the Shetlands.’

‘The Shetlands?’

‘Up north,’ Mrs Childs replied bluntly. ‘But you should know that. You’re her friend.’

‘Of course!’ Roxy laughed quickly. She slapped her hand on her forehead ostentatiously. If old folk needed loud talking, they probably needed big gestures too. ‘I forgot! Brain like a goldfish!’

‘Fish? In your drain? You need to get a man around about that.’

‘No, my
brain!
Like a goldfish! Never mind.’

‘Only comes back at Christmas,’ the old lady grumbled. ‘And not every Christmas, at that. Lavender Heath’s too busy, she says.
Too busy!
She always was selfish, that girl.’

Roxy’s grin wavered. Holly had to be the least selfish person alive. And why was the old girl banging on about Scotland? She was as nutty as a bag of dry roasted. She’d have to come back when she was napping. Either that, or nab Holly when she was out in the village.

‘Is there anything I can get you, Mrs Childs?’ Roxy shouted kindly. ‘Some milk or a newspaper, perhaps?’

‘Milk? Don’t be silly!’ the old woman scoffed. ‘Holly brings me that.’

‘Holly … Right; of course,’ muttered Roxy. ‘Look, don’t worry! I’ll send her an email,’ she added loudly.

‘Right you are, dear,’ the old woman replied. ‘And spuds and curly kale.’

The front door promptly closed.

Roxy let out a deep breath.

Damn!
Plan A thwarted – for now. She headed back down Holly’s mum’s path, to the pavement. But then she delved into her bag, fished out her phone and typed in a new postcode. Directions to Cressida’s house popped up. And Roxy set off back into the village, ready to action Plan B.

‘Hell’s bells, Simon; this is
delicious!’
Cressida waggled her fork ecstatically at the slice of carrot cake. ‘Really, Chelle; you should try some!’

Chelle recoiled as though burned. ‘A moment on the lips…’

‘Is what?’ Cressida scoffed. ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake; live a little!’ She inched her plate towards Chelle.

Sat on her sofa, Roxy groped for serenity. But it was hard. It was now twenty hours since she’d emailed Woody the strategies –
twenty whole hours
– and not a dickie bird! Even
if
Jennifer had just come home, it was no excuse. He’d arrived late and had sat next to Holly, so Roxy hadn’t even been able to ask if he’d read them.
And
it was just three hours to go ‘til bloody Valentine’s. And,
bollocks
– that carrot cake looked good! So, with an iron will, Roxy dragged her eyes over to a happier sight – the results of Plan B: Cressida’s hair. There were no two ways about it – Cressida’s new barnet was a hairdressing triumph. She’d been shocked at how little resistance the former Secretary of State for Work and Pensions had shown to a
chestnut rinse and pair of curling tongs. Maybe Austin’s Vidal Sassoon comment had hurt. But still, no pain no gain, and the autumn waves took years off her.

Serenity restored, Roxy relaxed. But then the armchair grunted.

The autumn waves swivelled.

‘Did he just snore?’ Cressida asked incredulously.

The group eyed the shambolic sight of Austin Jones slumped in Roxy’s armchair, Chelle on sexy stand-by to the side. He looked – if it was possible – even worse than last week. His beard matted, his hair was greasy and there was a crusty stain on his shirt.

‘He definitely
looks
asleep,’ whispered Sue.

‘He’s an actor. He could be acting asleep,’ Terence hissed.

‘Well at least he’s being no trouble.’ Woody shrugged.

For a few moments everyone watched Austin’s gut rise and fall as he slept.

‘Anyone thinking what I’m thinking?’ Terence asked evilly.

‘What?’ Chelle blinked. ‘Thinking what?’

‘That maybe Austin didn’t quit Hollywood, after all?’

Holly gasped.

‘What?’ Chelle’s head swung from one to the other. ‘What? I don’t get it!’

Terence gave a thin-lipped smile. And then he wrinkled his nose. ‘Is it just me, or can everyone smell him?’

The room collectively inhaled. There was a definite whiff of BO.

‘Well, that’s a turn up for the books,’ smirked Simon.

Chelle screwed up her face. ‘That’s minging.’

‘For goodness sake, Roxy,’ Cressida cried, wafting her airspace with a napkin. ‘Haven’t you got any air freshener?’

Roxy shrugged. ‘I normally squirt the radiator with perfume. Makes the house smell mint. Want me to get some?’

‘Yes!’
everyone cried.

Roxy rummaged down the back of her sofa, pulled out a bottle and doused the room in Obsession.

Terence pointed at Austin. ‘You’d better do him as well.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes!’
everyone cried again.

Roxy crept up towards Britain’s highest-grossing box-office star, aimed at his armpit and squirted. Austin Jones grunted, sneezed and then fell back to sleep. The group squeaked with silent laughter. Even Chelle afforded a smile.

‘He’ll smell like a tart’s parlour,’ Terence gleefully predicted. ‘No offence, Rox –
you
smell great.’

Roxy settled back on to the sofa, zoned out the cake and smiled. It was a rare moment of group unity – and it felt ace! Maybe Woody hadn’t read the strategies, but it didn’t mean she shouldn’t get cracking. And with everyone so happy and relaxed, wasn’t now the perfect time to lob them a few pearls of her wisdom?

‘OK, gang … It’s time we stopped fannying about and said hello to the bloody big elephant in the room.’

‘What elephant?’ Chelle looked over her shoulder.

‘Reality TV!’
Roxy cried out with passion. ‘And what it can do for you.’

The room collectively groaned.

‘No, really, guys. Pick the right show and it’s complete career rejuvenation! Just look at Myleene, and Widdy, and Andre.’

‘Andre who?’ Cressida asked with a frown.

‘Peter
An— Oh, it doesn’t matter. The point is, reality TV can make you. You just have to get the right show.’

Suddenly Simon sighed, right from the bottom of his diaphragm. ‘I can’t believe I said no to
Big Brother.’

‘You were offered
Celebrity Big Brother?’
Roxy goggled him, amazed.
CBB
was seriously big league.

‘Another classic Drennan career choice,’ he said glumly. ‘I’d give my right arm to do it now – even on Channel Five.’

‘Some dweeb phoned to offer me
Wife Swap.’
Terence frowned. ‘I thought he was taking the piss!’

‘Celebrity Love Island
offered me six figures.’ Holly looked up from her minutes.

‘And I said no to
Who Do You Think You Are?
And
Celebrity Masterchef
, and
Dancing On Ice!’
Simon continued morosely.

‘I was asked to do
Strictly,’
piped up Sue. ‘Do you think I should have done it?’

‘Bloody hell
, Sue;
yes!’
Roxy choked.

‘But I don’t know how to dance.’

‘That’s the whole point!’

‘I got offered
The Salon,’
Chelle joined in through a mouthful of gum. ‘And
Most Haunted Live, Celebrity Coach Trip
and my very own version of
The Bachelor.’

‘The Bachelor Hunter?’
Cressida asked tartly.

‘The Bachelorette,’
Chelle replied with a frown.

Roxy was speechless. Even Chelle had had offers!

‘What about you?’ Holly asked Woody. ‘The TV bookers must have been fighting to get hold of you.’

Woody rubbed his head. ‘I think I’ve been approached by them all. I said no to everything, of course. Apart from the
Pop Dinosaurs
comeback tour. I quite fancied that. There’d have been a whole bunch of us has-beens in a crappy old tour bus, playing pubs and eating at Little Chefs. It could have been a laugh.’

‘Don’t talk to me about bookers.’ Cressida put down her plate with a scowl. ‘That jungle-show woman was a pest. She called every day for six months. I’d a mind to report her for harassment.’

Roxy’s mouth fell open. ‘
You
were offered
I’m A Celeb?’

‘That’s the one!’

‘But why didn’t you do it?’

‘Because I am not a “celeb”.’

‘Fuck!’ the armchair declared. ‘I
knew
I’d seen your arse!’

Everyone turned with a jump. Austin had woken. And he was staring right at Roxy.

‘I knew I knew you!’ He grinned. ‘You’re the bird that got a colonic! I saw it, live on TV!’

Everyone gasped.

‘Bloody hell, Roxy!’ exclaimed Simon.

‘A colonic?’ Chelle momentarily broke off from pouting at Austin. ‘What, where someone sticks one of them pipes up your—’

‘Yes!’
everyone cried out again.

Roxy swallowed hard. This wasn’t quite the pearl of wisdom she’d intended. As a rule, she didn’t believe in regrets – but the colonic was the exception. Her mum had cried for a week, her fan mail had halved and her agent had actually fired her. Roxy looked around the room, apprehensive. Everyone was staring, appalled. She didn’t dare look as far as Woody – God knew what he thought of her now.

‘It was terrestrial TV; Friday night,’ she offered limply.

There was a long pause… incredibly long. And then Cressida frowned. ‘Was it a medical experiment?’

‘A desperate bid for fame, more like,’ someone muttered.

‘Oh, Roxy.’ Sue looked at her sadly.

But Simon scratched his head. ‘Did it work?’

Roxy laughed, awkward. ‘In a deep-cleaning sense?’

He looked sheepish. ‘In a fame sense.’

‘Um …’ Not even
she
could blag this.

Austin sniffed. ‘Bloody good telly though,’ he said loudly. ‘I laughed my cock off!’

‘Not quite the reaction I’d hoped for.’ Roxy managed a weak smile.

‘Still …’ Austin yawned and stretched. ‘I’ve got to hand it to you – you’ve got balls, Feisty! You’ve got to be brave, desperate or retarded to have a shit on TV.’

He stood up and wandered into the kitchen. A few moments later there was the sound of Roxy’s fridge opening.

Roxy had never understood the expression ‘praying for the ground to swallow you up’. Not until now, that was. And,
sitting on her sofa – with Woody quieter than a sound-proofed coffin in a graveyard vacuum, all her new friends mute with disgust – Roxy offered up a plea to the gods. And then she offered up another to the goddesses of the golden triangle. But even Liz, Debs and Mossy had gone AWOL.

And then she heard it: a farty-sounding snort. And she looked up and saw Woody’s shoulders beginning to shake.

‘Are you …?’ She stopped herself dead.
Surely not. Surely Woody wouldn’t be …?
But the shakes were getting bigger, the farty snort sounds louder, and Woody looked as though he was biting his lip.

‘Oh my God; are you
laughing
at me?’ she demanded.

And then it came – loud, unmistakeable and infectious … a huge, gurgling Woody guffaw.