Could It Be I'm Falling in Love? (35 page)

She steamed along the road towards the High Street. As she marched, she could see a bunch of paps loitering by Austin’s ahead. For a moment, she considered stopping, ringing the buzzer and seeing if Austin had been serious about that poke from his pipework. Hell, why should Valentine sex be just for the loved-up? She could do with a pick-me-up bonk, and Austin was the dictionary definition of filthy shag. But she didn’t slow down. Cake trumped sex and, besides – it was five to eight! Austin would be sleeping, like any other borderline-sexpest Hollywood heart-throb. And, as much as an X-rated romp with Austin Jones might make her feel better, scaling his gates to get it might not. She knew his type … all innuendo and no trousers.

She powered on.

The village shop loomed into view with its promise of full-fat butter, demerara sugar and artery-thickening cream cheese. Roxy’s mouth watered again. All she could think about was cake … sinking gum-deep into criminally calorific cake.

But suddenly she stopped.

Forty feet ahead, right outside the village shop, two women were ensconced in a tête-à-tête. And not just any old tête-à-tête: a girly tête-à-tête. They were standing very near to each other, their voices low, their faces so close they were almost
touching. One of the women was nodding and rubbing the other one’s back. The other woman was upset. Clutching a rose, her cheeks glowed with a colour that could be high emotion or NARS Super Orgasm blush. The woman with the cheeks was Chelle. And massaging her back was Holly.

Roxy stood for a moment, paralysed. She should move, keep walking, say hello. But something kept her rooted to her spot. What was it? Nosiness? Suspicion?
Jealousy?
Roxy was winded by a pang. Something stirred, deep inside her. Buried beneath a scattered pile of messy nights out was a set of memories of moments like this … when everything would stop as she and Tish spilled out whatever tiny thing was bothering them and together they put the world bang-to-rights. As Roxy stared, she tried to swallow the unexpected envy she felt. She shouldn’t feel jealous of Chelle! Chelle was thick and vacuous and totally the wrong shade of orange. Chelle was a celebrity-husband hunter, on a mission for her next designer-clad millionaire with a magazine cover thrown in.

And yet, Chelle had Holly and her sympathy.

And suddenly the tête-à-tête was over. Before Roxy could blink, the two women had swept into a double-parked Aston Martin, fired the engine and roared off. Roxy pulled herself back to life and stumbled the last few steps to the shop. There was serious business at hand … Carrot cake was on the menu for breakfast.

Nine down (seven letters): To overcome, suceed.

Something, something,
E
, last letter
L
.

No matter how hard she tried, she just couldn’t concentrate. She’d been doing the crossword for an hour, but couldn’t get further than nine down. Her attention kept wandering from the black and white squares on the paper to the red heart on the worktop. She had a Valentine’s card! She hadn’t had one since Jeff and, even then, he’d forgotten at least two of the three years they were married. Sue resisted going over and picking it up and, for the thousandth time since breakfast, she racked her brains as to who could have sent it. She’d have sworn it had been put through the wrong letterbox, but the name ‘Sue Bunce’ had been scrawled on the envelope.

She was still puzzling nine down when the doorbell rang. The delivery-man was standing on her doorstep, yet another Hobbs parcel in his hands.

‘We must stop meeting like this,’ he said, and then winked.

Sue almost did a double take. Had the delivery-man just flirted with her? She was sure that he had. Could
he
be the
one who’d sent her the card? But before she had the chance to talk herself out of the possibility, he thrust his electronic pad forward.

Clutching her parcel with one hand, she numbly scribbled her name.

‘Keep shopping!’ He tipped his cap, grinned and turned away. And that’s when Sue saw him: Terence – at the end of her drive –
again
.

Even from a distance she could see him colour slightly, before lifting his hand up to wave. She froze, suddenly nervous, her package tight to her chest. Three times he’d been there now. Even
she
knew the statistical likelihood of Terence having dropped something three times in the same spot was nigh on impossible. But why was he there?

The delivery-man receded down the drive, whistling loudly.

‘Lovely morning for it,’ he called to Terence as he crunched past.

‘Um, yes; lovely,’ Terry coughed. ‘Apart from the north-easterlies, of course.’

And then the delivery-man was gone, and it was just Terence and Sue, standing awkwardly at opposite ends of the gravel.

There was a pause.

‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ Sue hesitantly called over.

Terence cupped his hand to his ear.

‘I said, WOULD YOU LIKE A CUP OF TEA?’

‘TEA? YES – FANTASTIC!’ he hollered back. ‘I MEAN, THANK YOU. THAT WOULD BE VERY NICE.’

Another moment passed and then, as if remembering his legs, Terence lurched into action and walked towards her.

Sue was shocked. She’d never seen him self-conscious before. He was always so assured at the meetings. She turned into the house to spare him the embarrassment of being watched. Nervously, she fluttered in her hallway. Should she wait for Terence here, or in the kitchen with the kettle on? She’d never been on her own with Terence before, and she panicked. Should she just say hello? Shake his hand?
Kiss his cheek?
And then she remembered the heart-shaped card on the worktop and she whizzed into the kitchen and stuffed it into a drawer.

‘That’s the thing about north-easterlies,’ Terence announced loudly as he entered the kitchen, stiff-limbed. ‘You can never be sure they won’t bring rain.’

Sue nodded uncertainly, unable to think of a single appropriate reply. Terence was wearing that nice coat again. It was even nicer close up … soft-looking; like it was cashmere.

‘Sugar?’

‘Oh, no, I’m watching my …’ He patted his stomach. He stood ramrod straight as Sue boiled the kettle.

‘I’m not stalking you!’ He suddenly laughed tightly.

‘Sorry?’

‘By standing at the end of your drive. I know it probably looks like I am, but I’m not – stalking you, I mean. Obviously I
am
standing – or I was.’

‘Of course!’ agreed Sue, confused.

The kettle turned itself off with a click. Gratefully, Sue turned away and poured hot water into the teapot.

‘Please, Terence; you’re making me nervous,’ she said over her shoulder. ‘Would you please sit down?’

‘God – sorry!’ Terence jumped into a seat. ‘I didn’t mean …’

Happier now that he was seated, Sue carried the tea (PG) and biscuits (custard creams) to the table. She’d always thought Terence was a custard creams man.

‘The thing is …’ he said suddenly. ‘The thing is, there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you.’

‘There is?’

‘And each time I got here, I kind of …’ He looked at Sue hopefully, willing for the penny to drop. ‘…
chickened out.’

‘Oh!’ Sue nervously picked up a biscuit.

‘Sue, would you come to the pictures with me?’

‘The pictures?’ Sue’s cheeks fired with shock. She put the biscuit back on the plate.

‘A week next Tuesday.’

‘Umm.’

‘As friends, of course. I didn’t mean—’

‘Of course! I wouldn’t presume …’ she reassured him, suddenly feeling a bit flat. ‘It’s just that … I’m … Well, I’m …’ How could she explain that going to the cinema wasn’t something she did?

‘Busy, of course,’ he surmised. ‘It was silly of me, really, to expect…’ He stood up. ‘Right, well, I’d better be leaving. I’m sorry to have wasted your time.’

He was about to head for the door.

‘But your tea. It’s only just brewed!’

Terence looked for a moment and then abruptly came back and sat down.

There was another awkward pause: a very long one.

And then Sue heard herself break it.

‘What were you planning to see?’

‘Hmm?’

‘At the pictures, next Tuesday?’

‘Do you know – I don’t even know.’ He ran his fingers through his hair, embarrassed. ‘It’s just, I think Roxy left me these tickets, and it’s in London – a premiere, and I’ve got no one else to ask.’

‘Oh!’

‘I mean, obviously you’re my
first
choice.’

Sue didn’t know what to say. The whole conversation was rather perplexing.

‘Anyway, you’re busy. And that’s perfectly fine. It’s just that …’ He tailed off again, lost.

‘A premiere?’ Sue asked. ‘With crowds, and photographers, and a red carpet?’

‘Yes. I thought it would be exciting, but the more I think about it, the more it sounds—’

‘Frightening.’

He nodded.

They both stared at their tea.

‘She says it would be good for my profile,’ Terence said after a moment. ‘She says I need to get out of the “weatherman zone”; let people see me in unexpected locations.’

Suddenly Sue felt sorry for him. Beneath the new coat, he looked like the wall of his chest had just crumpled.

‘I’ll give the tickets back,’ he determined.

‘Is that what you want?’

He went quiet for a moment. ‘I know the thought of going to a premiere is, well…’ He shrugged.
‘But what if she’s right?
I can’t stagnate in Lavender Heath for the rest of my life; I’m still a young man!’ His middle-age spread wobbled earnestly. ‘I don’t want my life to be over already. And it’s not as if the meteorological broadcasting fraternity is beating down my door to beg me to come back. I know Woody says fame isn’t everything, that we need to work out what we want to do with the next stage of our lives; but what if what I want
is
to be famous? What if I
want
to be back on TV – to be recognised, and respected – to actually have things to
do
in a day? Does that make me a terrible person?’

He stared at her, waiting. Sue realised her answer was important. ‘No! No, it doesn’t!’ she said. And it didn’t. Just because
not
being famous was right for her and fine and dandy for Woody, it didn’t mean it was right for
everyone
. And Terence obviously needed his old life back. He certainly wasn’t happy without it.

‘I know she’s loud and orange and wears seasonally-inappropriate clothing,’ he continued, ‘but Roxy’s the only person who’s actually helped me. Not that I’m saying … Well, you all – Woody and everyone – obviously
you guys
have helped me. Actually, you’ve all been kinder to me than anyone I can remember. But Roxy’s the only one who’s helped me
get back.’

Sue nodded, thinking of all the little ways Roxy had helped her too: the duck egg, the hair tips, the girly chats over shared pots of tea … It wasn’t as if
she
wanted to be famous again, but she realised that she did feel a bit better about herself lately. It was as though Roxy had given her a piece of her old self back.

‘I’ll do it!’ she suddenly declared, making Terence’s teacup rattle in its saucer. ‘I’ll come with you, to London!’

‘To the premiere?’

‘Yes!’ she cried before she could talk herself out of it. Already she felt a bit sick. What was she saying? She hadn’t been to London for years. She’d have to get the train. And there’d be people – crowds and crowds of people. And cameras.
And people
.

‘You’d really do that?’ Terence asked.
‘For me?’

Sue looked at him. How different he seemed, with his new clothes and honesty. She watched his face as excitement pushed aside the bitterness and blurred out the frown lines. He looked rejuvenated, exhilarated …
happy!

‘Yes. Yes, I will,’ she confirmed. She tried to ignore the fact that her whole body was screaming for her not to. She felt tense from her toenails to her eyeballs. But something made her say yes. After all – she tried to be rational – she
did
have a dozen new outfits to wear, and it was pointless having them if they never came off the hanger. And Terence had looked so wretched when he’d thought she was busy. Besides, she’d only be there as moral support. Everyone would be looking at him. Surely she’d hidden long enough to be forgotten by now?

‘Thank you, Sue; thank you so much!’ Terence cracked with relief. ‘You’re amazing!’ And, beaming broadly, he stood up to leave.

Sue picked up her tea and tried to relax enough to sip. She felt a hundred different things, but amazing definitely wasn’t one of them.

‘It’s “prevail”, by the way,’ Terence smiled.

‘Hmm?’

‘Nine down,’ he pointed at the crossword, half finished, next to the teapot. ‘Seven letters; something, something,
E
, last letter
L
. “Prevail”.’