Could It Be I'm Falling in Love? (37 page)

Now that she was home, Roxy didn’t know what to do. She paced around her kitchen, flushed and breathless, ready to erupt with glee.

She had a job!

She was going to be back on TV!

ROCK AND ROLL!!!

She laughed out loud. She
knew
TV would come begging, if she could just keep the faith. And her career second wind had just gusted. Cool Britannia would be just the beginning … Once everyone saw her back where she belonged – on the box, interviewing rock stars and stuff – they’d
all
see the light. Producers the length of London would stare – flabbers gasted – wondering how they’d managed
not
to book Roxy Squires for their last eighteen jobs. And then there’d be a whoosh – so enormous that actual wind would blow across Soho – as hands simultaneously reached for phones to dial Roxy’s number … And then a groan, as deep as thunder, as all the two-bit agents who’d told her she was ‘just too millennium’ dropped their heads on their desks and wept.

‘I’m back!’ Roxy roared to her empty kitchen.
‘I’m bloody back!’

And then nothing …

Her smile froze.

What now?

How should she celebrate her news? It seemed weird
opening bubbly alone – and besides, if she was filming, she should probably detox. So, what else …? Instinctively her hand grasped her phone. She knew who she wanted to tell. The person she most wanted to share her news with was
him
. She wanted to see his eyes sparkle – his face burst into that big, dazzling grin that made her tummy flip and her chest go as fizzy as cola. She wanted to see him light up with happiness as he took her in his arms and whirled her around and around in celebration over the career break she so obviously deserved.

‘Arghhhh!’ Roxy growled. Was there anything in the world more frustrating than having just had a barney with the man you most wanted to speak to? Oh yes, she remembered – there was.
It was that man already having a Jennifer
.

She gritted her teeth. This wasn’t a day to feel down. This was
exactly
the Valentine’s she’d wanted – a CV-changer! And if she couldn’t celebrate with Woody, then she’d celebrate in the next best way she knew how … with a frantic bout of shopping and a good hard tweet. Roxy zoomed into the hall. Yes, virtual friends and shopping – that was the solution. After all, Mungo had said to wear her own clothes and, despite having four wardrobes bursting with outfits, she was sure she didn’t have quite the right thing. A quick trip to London was called for; just her, her credit card and Westfield … plus a pit stop on the way home at the Tanning Shop. After all, her drunken self-tan had nearly faded back to mere orange and she couldn’t rock up at Camden a ghost. Not now she was going to be on TV!
Not now she was back!

2.48pm @FoxyRoxy

To all the lily-livered talent bookers who lost my number – grow a pair! Mungo’s got bigger whatsits than the lot of you!

2.50pm @FoxyRoxy

When D:Ream Ruled The Waves? Roxy Rules The Waves
, more like! Stand back everyone; it’s time for another surfs-up!

2.54pm @FoxyRoxy

No, I am not drunk!!! Just high on success, people …
high on success!

To:
Roxy Squires

From:
Quercus Publishing

Dear Ms Squires,

Thank you for your email detailing two outlines for non-fiction manuscripts you’d like us to publish.

First, it is with regret that we inform you that, whilst your idea for the self-penned volume
1001 Ways To Party (And Still Be At Work By 9)
is interesting, it isn’t suitable for our list at present.

However, your idea for a ‘warts and all’ memoir of Suzi ‘Sugatits’ Bunce is something we are very keen to pursue! Can you organise for us to meet Ms Bunce and discuss this further? However, prior to meeting, there were a couple of points in your email that puzzled us … Firstly, is Ms Bunce your legally signed literary client? And secondly, is the author actually in agreement that she
wants
her story told?

Despite her vow to have an under-eye-boosting early night, Roxy was still up and flicking through the TV channels. She couldn’t remember being nervous about a shoot before. In the old days, she’d always been too busy. She’d just learn the script and head off to party. If anything went wrong, she just blagged it. But this time everything was different. This time she had to be perfect.

She eyed her Cool Britannia script and tried to stay calm. She was pretty sure she’d learnt it word-perfect. It hadn’t been hard – it was short. They must be keeping it lean for her interviews. She looked at her new shoot outfit, hanging up on the door. It was perfect – fantastic – she knew it! But still she felt freakily frightened.

She grabbed her phone. It rang twenty-three times before being answered.

‘Um, timing?’ Tish’s voice sounded sarcastic. There were restaurant noises behind her. With a cringe, Roxy remembered the date.

‘Romantic nosh-up with the Guy-ster?’

‘Top table at Nobu.’

Despite sounding peeved, Roxy knew Tish was pleased. There was no point having the top table at Nobu if nobody knew you were there.

‘Sorry, Tish – it’s just I’ve got a major shoot tomorrow and I was thinking … Why don’t we hook up afterwards – paint the town red, like the old days? We could knock back the sambucas, throw a few shapes and pass out with kebab on our faces.’ Roxy paused for the squeal of delight. But she could only hear chopsticks on china. ‘Or we could glam up, wear black and sip the night away in a posh cocktail bar; let Guy think they’re non-alcoholic …?’

‘Rox, babe, you know I’d love to. But it’s Seraphina’s school play.’

‘That’s OK. What time does it finish? Seven?’

‘Eight.’

‘Eight’s perfect! The shoot probably won’t wrap ‘til then. That’ll give us both enough time to glam up, hop in a cab and meet in the middle.’ Again, Roxy waited for the squeal. Again, it didn’t come – just mutterings from Guy about boundaries. ‘Come on!’ She tried to entice her. ‘You’re always moaning you never go out; here’s your chance. I’ll drag Mungo out too, if you like?’

‘Mungo Elliott?’ Now she had Tish’s attention. ‘That old cokehead? Isn’t he extinct with the rest of the dinosaurs?’

‘He was the one who got me the job. Didn’t you pick up my tweets? He’s executive producing the show. It sounds as if
he’s practically running Cool Britannia single-handed.’

‘Running it into the ground, more like. Didn’t he get fired from every TV company he worked for?’

‘Did he?’ Roxy tried to think back. ‘I just remember him being a good laugh. And he’s got amazing shows on his CV.’

‘From the last millennium,’ Tish snorted. ‘He’s been travelling ever since 2000.’

‘Travelling? Cool! Where’s he been?’

‘Nowhere, silly. Nobody travels when they say they’ve been travelling. They only go as far as the Priory.
Excuse me; are you sure that water’s been
triple
purified?’

Roxy was shocked.

‘Mungo’s been in rehab?’

‘Does Russell Brand like sex?’ Tish scoffed. ‘Mungo’s recession-proofed the industry.’

‘Oh!’ Roxy felt stupid. ‘I didn’t know.’

‘How could you have
not
known? I’m not even on the circuit and
I
know.’

‘Well, let’s not invite Mungo then,’ Roxy said hurriedly, trying not to feel out of date. She could hear Guy telling Tish to hang up. ‘Let’s just keep it old school – you and me! And – who knows? – I’ll be interviewing loads of the bands we used to hang with; maybe I could get a few of them to come out with us too.’

For a moment Tish sounded tempted, but then her voice slumped.

‘I dunno, Rox. Guy’s got a really early tee-off.’

‘I’m not going to force you to have a good time!’ Roxy laughed.

‘Cheers, hun; I knew you’d understand. Ooo, that noodle salad looks
delicious!’
And suddenly Tish was gone.

Roxy put down the phone and tried not to feel hurt. She forced herself to look on the bright side. Yes, it was a bummer Tish was busy, but the crew would be up for a night out. No self-respecting TV shoot would dream of ending without an almighty piss-up – and given this was one of Mungo’s TV shoots, the partying was bound to be epic. In fact, maybe it was best Tish couldn’t make it. Everyone knew partying with the production team was the best way to get your next job – and Tish always did have a way of stealing the show.

Roxy hugged her knees to her chest.

It was no good … she still felt nervous. So she asked herself,
What would Mossy do, the night before a career-altering shoot?
A hot bath? A few calming fags? An all-night bender with a pickled Rolling Stone? Roxy sat back, breathed hard and tried to channel some Mossy.

7.21am @FoxyRoxy

Sooo excited! Big shoot today! Hardly slept a wink – too happy! Am gonna kick serious TV butt + remind world

7.22am @FoxyRoxy

… (or rather media world, so butt-kicking refined to W1, WC2 & small patch of Salford) …

7.23am @FoxyRoxy

… that ROXY is still FOXY! #ROXYSAYS: watch this space!

7.25am @FoxyRoxy

eek! Got 4 layers of Bobbi Brown to administer, funny chin whisker to pluck + final coat of St Trop to slap on …

7.26am @FoxyRoxy

… AND I’VE NOT EVEN BREWED UP YET!!!

‘At last! I thought you’d forgotten!’ said Cressida as she peered at the teen on her doorstep. ‘Is this my gimp?’

‘Wha—?’ Euan freewheeled back in alarm.

‘One gimp, as promised,’ Woody replied cheerily. ‘He’s got an attitude to rival Piers Morgan, but his dad says he’s great with his thumbs.’

Euan stared wildly and whimpered.

Cressida looked Euan up and down with a frown. Her gaze lingered on his high-top trainers.

‘How old are you, boy?’ she demanded.

‘Fifteen.’

‘Have you ever read a broadsheet? What’s the IMF? What’s the name of the Chancellor of the Exchequer?’

His eyes fell to his feet.

‘Too busy playing computer games and frittering time on the internet?’

He gave a small nod.

‘Perfect!’ She stuck out her hand. ‘Cressida Cunningham. Ms Cunningham, to you. And you are …?’

‘Euan,’ he squeaked, his eyes beginning to water from her grip.

‘Euan what?’

‘Drennan.’

‘Simon’s son?’

‘The very same,’ Woody replied. ‘And, despite his liking for herbal cigarettes, I think he might be just the young man that you’re after.’

‘Herbal cigarettes?’ Cressida eyed Euan sternly. ‘So your father’s sent you here to be punished?’

For the second time that minute Euan whimpered.

‘Not quite,’ said Woody. ‘Think of his gimping as community service. If he fails to put in the hours, he’ll be putting in an appearance at the court of Mum and Dad. But I doubt it’ll come to that. I’m sure you can whip him into shape.’

Euan made a noise like a choke.

‘Hmmm.’ Cressida looked less than convinced. But then she clapped her hands together with a crack. ‘Well, don’t just stand there like a wet blanket! Come in and make yourself useful.’

She turned and disappeared into the bowels of the house.

From the safety of the doorstep, Euan faltered.

‘Go on,’ Woody nudged him over the threshold.

‘But I don’t want …’ Euan replied, more with fear than actual resistance.

‘I know,’ Woody agreed. ‘But you’re going to do it anyway. Like I said, think of it as an exchange. You could learn a hell of a lot from Ms Cunningham. Pay attention and she could be the making of you.’

‘You can start with the coffee machine,’ Cressida instructed brusquely from somewhere inside the house.

‘You’ve got a coffee machine?’ Woody was surprised.

‘Oh, yes …’ Her voice bounced down the hall. ‘Now I’ve got a gimp, there’ll be no end to my purchasing of gadgets. Euan, I have milk and one sugar, and you can have squash and a biscuit. And when you’ve made the coffee, you can set up my new i-telephone. And after that, you can teach me how to DDM.’